


A Lost Heart - An Empty Home

by Raliena



Series: Three Continents Watson [3]
Category: G.I. Joe - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John "Three Continents" Watson, Mystery, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlock-centric, The Empty House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 41,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4276356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raliena/pseuds/Raliena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly three years have passed since Sherlock jumped, and now he comes home to finish what he started. He wants to finish with John by his side. But that may not be as simple as he first thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - You recognise it, I don't own it.

At London St Pancras International station it is not unusual to find a young traveller looking around in amazement and wonder. Their first real sight of London… Of England.

 

So no-one looked twice at the lanky mid-twenties man, with auburn hair. Backpack strapped firmly to his back.

 

He was obviously a foreign student of some sort. Probably Spanish or Italian, by his colouring. Clearly visiting on some sort of holiday. Not wealthy. But not poor either.

 

With no one looking twice at him, not even the police, no one noticed the shining intellect behind the glasses he wore on his nose. Nor the slightly self-satisfied smug look on his face, which he was managing to hide spectacularly well. He was entitled after all. It was his first time back in London… In _England_ for nearly three years.

 

Nobody followed the supposed student as he exited into the streets of London. Which was a good thing, as it meant that no-one noticed when less than half an hour later, the student was somehow transformed into an elderly, deformed man with a curved back and white sideburns.

 

Few people gave _this_ man a second look either. Not even when he approached one of the most private and selective gentleman’s clubs in London. Then again, most people didn’t even realize it was a gentleman’s club.

 

The man was shown into the Stranger’s Room, where he waited calmly to be met.

 

It didn’t take too long. But neither man spoke, until the servants had left and the doors firmly closed.

 

            “Brother.” Mycroft Holmes nodded at the man, “I trust this means you have succeeded?”

            “Nearly.” Sherlock Holmes pulled the wig and sideburns off and straightened up, “I have still to locate the new ring-leader. But I have deduced their location as London.”

            “You are certain?”

            “Absolutely.”

            “Were you followed?”

            “You insult me. Of course not.”

            “You have been partially successful. International crime _has_ reduced a significant degree. Though not as much as I anticipated.”

            “New organisations have sprung up to replace Moriarty’s.” Sherlock shrugged, “It is the nature of criminals. However these new organisations are less organised and certainly far less dangerous. It is the remnants of Moriarty’s Web that I have been concentrating on. The strands that the Police are too dull-witted to unravel.”

            “You have certainly been effective there. I presume you have at least a partial identity of the new commander?”

            “I have heard numerous references to TC. Usually from those sent out to clean up certain messes that had unintentionally revealed their allegiance with Moriarty.”

            “TC.” Mycroft rolled the name off his tongue, “Not a name that has come up in my investigations. However they have been very careful since Moriarty’s demise. I believe it was not expected by any level of the organisation, leading to a short delay while hierarchy was established.”

            “That bears a resemblance to mine. Moriarty was too narcissistic to allow his organisation to continue unhindered after his death. It would give the image that he was unnecessary.”

            “Indeed. Where do you plan to start your hunt for TC?”

            “Firstly by meeting up with John. Where is he?”

            “John? Oh, Doctor Watson. I am afraid I do not know.”

            “What. Do. You. Mean?” Sherlock’s voice was low and slow, “Where. Is. My. John?”

            “It was for his own protection.” Mycroft explained, “The only reason he had any value as a piece on the board was that he was your flatmate and colleague. By keeping surveillance on him I was endangering both him and yourself. My last encounter with him was at your memorial service. Where he threatened violence upon my person should I approach him again.”

 

Sherlock actually looked slightly proud at that statement.

 

            “I have reported statements that he was in attendance at a trial not that long after the service. Apart from that, I have no information of his location. Any investigation on my part would be recklessness. I have not even monitored his records. I could not trust anyone with the information that you were alive.”

            “Not even your shadow?”

            “Some information is too valuable even to trust her. I would advise you, brother, to continue your investigations without the good Doctor’s help. It is only sentimentality that causes you to request his presence after all. And caring is…”

            “Not an advantage, I know.” Sherlock finished the oft-mentioned phrase, “However it is _you_ who does not understand. It is not sentimentality. I find my mind deduces better in John’s presence. He is also a stalwart defender and friend. I bid you good day.”

 

With that Sherlock replaced his disguise and quietly departed. His mind whirling as he walked the streets of London.

 

John was missing.

 

Mycroft had let John go missing.

 

John could be…

 

No, that had _not_ happened. Sherlock was _not_ going to believe that John had… Had… Had died. It was impossible. So it could be eliminated.

 

Once Sherlock had found John, they could go after TC together. Together nothing could stop them. He knew, far better than his brother, that John was more important than anyone realized. More valuable than his brain. John was necessary. John was important.

 

John, above everyone else, was the reason he’d jumped that day all that time ago. Because _nobody_ was allowed to threaten John.

 

And he knew how to find John, even if Mycroft didn’t. The Doctor was incredibly loyal and faithful to his friends.

 

He wouldn’t have cut ties with Mrs Hudson.


	2. Chapter 2

Mrs Hudson was more than willing to invite an old man in for a cup of tea, when the old man was clearly hungry.

 

It was once the doors were shut and Sherlock was certain that no-one was observing that he pulled off his disguise.

 

            “Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, before pulling the man into a hug, “What happened? You died. John said he saw you jump.”

            “He did. I had to fake my death.”

            “Oh, look at you dear. You’re all skin and bones. You need to eat more. Have a seat. Let me get you something. I’m not your housekeeper… But well, it’s not every day you come back from the dead.”

            “I’m sorry to have distressed you.” Sherlock hadn’t forgotten _everything_ John had tried to teach him, “But I didn’t have a choice. There were snipers…”

            “Oh, I know that dear.” Mrs Hudson replied.

            “You do?” Sherlock blinked, “But _how_?”

            “John figured it out. Mine came in as a handyman. Very good one, actually. Almost wish he’d finished the job before…”

            “How did John know?” Sherlock interrupted, “Moriarty wasn’t an idiot. He was a _genius_! He set everything up perfectly. There is no possible way that John could have deduced Moriarty’s plan. How did he _know_?”

            “He saw the sniper.” Mrs Hudson shrugged, “Least that was what he said at the Inquest.”

            “Inquest?… Of course! To my death.”

            “And that dreadful man’s.” Mrs Hudson agreed, “John said he saw the sniper… Hang over from his time in the Army. He sent a friend to look after me.”

            “Who? John had very few friends… Only Sally at the clinic and Lestrade. There was a _reason_ he became my flatmate. Boredom. Estranged from his only family. If he _had_ another option. He would have taken it.”

            “An old army friend. As I understand it.” A Lieutenant Stone. Nice man. Well spoken. Very kind. You could tell he knew John. His whole face lit up when they spoke. He even attended your Memorial Service… For John’s sake, of course… But it was a very kind gesture.”

            “Do you know where John is?”

            “No. Sorry dear. He hasn’t come back here since you jumped… Oh, but he sends me a card at Christmas and on my birthday. I still have them, if you want to see. Last one came two weeks ago.”

            “Do you still have the envelopes?”

            “No. I’m sorry dear.”

            “Never mind.” Sherlock shrugged it off, “I’ll get what I can from the cards. Has he sent you anything else? An address? A telephone number?”

            “No. I’m sorry, dear.” Mrs Hudson replied, “I don’t know how to contact John. But he’s sent me a few gifts. Nothing big though.”

            “May I see?” Sherlock asked quickly.

 

In about five minutes, Sherlock was presented with a cup of tea, a slice of chocolate cake, five cards, three drawings, a beaded box, a ceramic figurine, a wooden carving and a broach.

 

Sipping slightly at the tea and praising the cake automatically ( _some_ of John’s lessons had taken deeper than others) Sherlock started to browse through the items.

 

The cards were simple generic, mass-produced items. Easily picked up at any stationary store, supermarket or even petrol station. No clues from them.

 

John had written in them in ball-point pen. Three in black, one blue and one green. All written in what Sherlock thought of as John’s “Prescription Handwriting”. It was neater and took longer to write than John’s usual stereotypically messy scrawl. Two had been written on a hard, flat surface. While the other three on a softer surface, most likely John’s lap. None of them showed signs of coercion. But also, they revealed very little about John. They simply consisted of Mrs Hudson’s name, John’s name and short messages.

 

            “Saw this and thought of you. Happy Birthday.”

            “Hope you like. Merry Christmas.”

            “Twisted a friend’s arm. Happy Christmas.”

            “Thought you might like this. Happy Birthday.”

            “Think this might look good on your mantelpiece. Merry Christmas.”

 

Nothing that could give a clue as to John’s location. But nothing that indicated any undue stress or worry. However John was quite good at hiding things from normal people if he felt it was necessary.

 

The ceramic figurine was shop-bought; Chinese made; widely distributed; of no significant value; of no use deductively. Though it did rather nicely compliment the other figurine on the mantelpiece. Clearly John had seen and remembered it and bought the statue to go with it. Therefore the figurine was the first gift John had sent.

 

The beaded box was small and round. The beads a mixture of glass and plastic. Hand-made. Meant for the tourist market. From America. By the design probably Alaskan. Not brilliantly made. Few lose ends. Not exported far. John had been _in_ America. Or had met someone who had. More likely had been there himself. This was not an item that someone would have bought to sell. It was more a keepsake of a holiday.

 

Again, handmade. Nauclea orientalis… No. Neolamarckia cadamba, an easy mistake. Carved into a Buddha. A healing Buddha. Again not widely transported. Probably Asian. South or Southeastern. John had been there. There was also something slightly _off_ about the face. It took Sherlock a moment or two to realize it, but he saw it. The Buddha had distinctly European features… In fact, despite the size and low level of skill on the part of the maker, it almost looked like John. A mystery for another time. John had been _in_ Asia.

 

The broach was clearly picked up at some sort of boot-fair or charity shop. While it could give a wealth of information about its previous owner, it gave little to no information about John.

 

He blinked slightly in surprise at the first of the three drawings. It was of himself. In ink, black and white. But clearly tracing over pencil lines. A closer study allowed him to realize it was a very well done copy of a photograph. This wasn’t a random piece. And it was far above John’s skill level. But the paper used was generic, though it had been cut out of a sketchbook. No useful clues there.

 

The second drawing was of Mrs Hudson. Again a copy of a photograph. Sherlock laid the two drawings next to each other.

 

They were similar in style. Clearly done by the same person. Judging by the lack on indentations on either of the sheets that matched the other drawing they were done on sheets from the book that had been separated by several other sheets. So John had been in an artist’s company for a period of time. Not a professional. But an artist of no small skill.

 

The third drawing was again by the same artist. But this time was of John. This time it was not a copy of a photograph. John looked older. More worn. Wearing different clothes than Sherlock had ever seen. Staring into the distance. This was drawn from life or at least from personal experience.

 

Unfortunately there was very little background to help. Sherlock frowned as he tried to deduce more information. But there was very little to be found. It was simply a picture of John wearing a short sleeved shirt… No, wait. That was significant. John was frequently cold. Even in the height of summer. He had to be somewhere _very_ warm. Looking closer at the lines behind the protective glass that Mrs Hudson had placed it in, he could see something glinting.

 

Quickly he produced his magnifying glass and looked closer. There were tiny sand particles mixed in with the ink. When the ink had dried it had trapped some of the sand particles. However the sand particles were missing from the earlier two artworks.

 

John had been somewhere hot and sandy. Either a desert or a beach. He was wearing a loose scarf around his neck, indicating a desert rather than a beach. His clothes didn’t really give any other clues.

 

It was possible to analyse the sand to gain more information, but he doubted that Mrs Hudson would allow him to deface the portrait. It was also likely, judging from the other presents, that John was no longer in that area.

 

            “What order did these arrive in?” Sherlock asked.

            “The ceramic figurine.” Mrs Hudson started to list, “Then my portrait.   Yours. John’s and the beaded box came at the same time. But in different parcels. Then the wooden statue. The broach was last.”

            “Different parcels?” Sherlock frowned at the discrepancy.

            “Yes. I thought it odd. The handwriting on the label was different too. I didn’t think much of it. Maybe he was busy and asked a friend to write the label.”

            “Doubtful.” Sherlock shook his head, “More likely that whoever he asked to produce the drawings created the third and sent it without his knowledge to complete the set. He was at least with someone he knew for an extended duration.”

            “I’m sorry I can’t help any further, Sherlock. But I’m sure John’s alright. He’s a good man. He’s clever. And Lieutenant Stone was a good friend. I’m sure he’s looking out for John.”

 

Sherlock wasn’t so sure. John had never mentioned anyone from his army days, apart from Murray. It was more than likely that Stone was someone who had owed John a favour. Though the Detective decided to reserve judgement, until he had more information.

 

            “May I use these?” Sherlock held up the cards.

            “To find John?” Mrs Hudson asked rhetorically, “Of course. Go ahead.”

 

It took Sherlock less than two hours to set up some chromatography and analyse the ink samples from the five cards. Comparing them to what he expected, he sank back in relief.

 

John had been alive at the turn of the New Year. The most recent card used ink with markers for the current year.

 

Sherlock quickly ran over the facts that he currently knew:

 

John had been travelling.

John had been to Asia.

John had been to America, probably Alaska.

John had been to a desert.

John had almost cut all links with Mrs Hudson.

John had made some sort of contact with the military.

John had spotted the sniper.

John had _not_ come home for a long time.

Mrs Hudson did not know how to contact John.

Mrs Hudson was of no further use in his hunt for either John or TC.

 

He then ran over several pieces of information he would have to confirm:

 

If John has left the country legally there should be some record.

If Lieutenant Stone _was_ a soldier there should be some record (though that was hardly important).

If John had distanced himself from Mrs Hudson he might have also done so from his other friends.

 

Sherlock knew where to go to confirm them all in one go.


	3. Chapter 3

Lieutenant Stone wasn’t in any military file that Sherlock could access. Or rather there was a Lt Stone, but considering that she was female, in the Navy and had only achieved her rank two years previous she was not John’s Lieutenant Stone.

 

It was more than likely that Lieutenant Stone was a nickname, or a reference to a previously held position. In which case there were several Lt Stones to choose from.

 

Narrowing down the identity of Lieutenant Stone could wait for another day. It wasn’t important.

 

It was merely something Sherlock had been idling his mind away with, while he waited for his searches to return information about John’s movements for the past three years.

 

But nothing came back on the system he was using. Nothing at all.

 

There was no money coming out or going into John’s formerly beleaguered bank account (only formerly, because it turns out that three years of interest and no expenses could bolster a bank account quite comfortably).

 

It seemed as if John had literally disappeared the same day Sherlock had made his choice to preserve his friend and those whose lives he valued above his own (he didn’t care for them, caring was _not_ an advantage).

 

John had left no sign of his passing behind electronically. That meant he was either using a false identity and money stashed away for emergencies or that he was being sheltered by another.

 

The first could be easily eliminated. John did not have the funds to have a separate bank account. He had barely made it with what little he had to start with. John did have more money than it at first appeared, but most of it was tied up with long term investments. It was clear that John had never intended on leaving the Army for at _least_ five more years when he had been invalided home (the earliest point where he could cash out of the investments).

 

The question was who.

 

If John had friends could impose on them at an earlier point in time, he would have never come to 221B.

 

A fact that was almost inconceivable to Sherlock.

 

The door to Sherlock’s commandeered office opened with a slight creak.

 

            “I am surprised that London is not overrun with criminals given the number of open case files you have here.” Sherlock remarked.

            “You… You’re dead.” Lestrade stared, leaning against the now closed door.

            “Clearly your powers of observation have deteriorated in my absence,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “There is no such thing as the supernatural. Therefore I must logically be alive.

            “I went to your _funeral_! Memorial service… Whatever it was!” Lestrade waved his hands, “How did you get in here anyway?”

            “The same way I always did.” Sherlock shrugged, “Clearly it was too much to expect you to have increased security sufficiently to present me with some sort of challenge.”

            “I’ll get that out of you one day. God Sherlock, it’s… It’s good to see you… Does… Does John know that you’re alive?”

            “Not yet.”

            “Tell him! The man was nearly catatonic after you… After you jumped.”

            “My intention is to tell him, however I must first locate him.”

            “Isn’t he at Baker Street?”

            “No. I infer from your question that you have not visited John in some time.”

            “I haven’t seen him since the trial… Haven’t spoken since your… Whatever that thing Mycroft arranged was.”

            “You did not attempt to communicate with him? He is your friend.”

            “So are _you_.” Lestrade threw the remark back, “And no, I tried. But he didn’t reply. He’s disappeared as far as I can tell. Doesn’t answer his phone messages. Ignores my texts. Hasn’t posted a _word_ on his blog since the day you… The day you jumped. I don’t know if he’s dumped his phone or what. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. As far as I’m concerned, he fell off the face of the World not long after you. What the devil were you _doing_ these past three years?”

            “Rounding up what remains of Moriarty’s organisation. If John is indeed missing, why have you not reported it to the authorities?”

            “I tried. But I am not deemed to have been sufficiently close to be able to make such a report. And the Missing Persons’ Department pointed out that there was a perfectly logical reason for John to be avoiding me.”

            “John would not abandon his friends. What reasoning did they apply?”

            “That John might hold me responsible for my role in the events that lead to you… Jumping. That he might not wish to see me again because of it. It made sense. I kept my eyes as open as possible. Got someone to rig an alert should he update his blog. Any John Doe that is found matching his general description, I get informed about. There’s nothing more I can _do_! He made his point very clear at the trial.”

            “How?”

            “He never looked at me. Not once. If he spoke about me, it was about Detective Inspector Lestrade. He doesn’t call me that. When I tried to get close… His friends blocked me.”

            “ _Friends_?” The word was sneered, “John had very few _friends_ outside of myself, Sarah, Mrs Hudson and yourself. Indeed I do not recall meeting any others.”

            “Well he has them.” Lestrade laughed, almost bitterly, “A bunch of military guys. Not just Army. Some of them took offence at that. The respect they have for John… It’s off the charts. They called him their Captain. And they meant it… He wasn’t your John.”

            “Of course he was.”

            “No… The John I knew wasn’t him. John’s soft. Gentle. Kind. We called him Sherlock’s Shadow. And some called him the Freak’s Pet. And the names only got worse from there. Always behind his back. Always believing he didn’t hear. But he did. John was calm. Never rising. John was peaceful. Safe. John wouldn’t harm a fly…

 

            “That day. Before you… Jumped. One phone call, not even directly from him, but from someone he asked to call… And nearly _half_ the SCO-19 unit broke ranks, disregarded orders and effectively held me prisoner in Scotland Yard until he came. Then he walked in. And the John who came, was not a man I knew… The John I recognised. He had bite. He had fire. He was calm and in control. And in control of those around him. We left that room… Well, he left, I followed in his wake. I _still_ don’t know exactly what John did to be allowed to approach a room full of armed men. But I know it makes what he did to the Chief Superintendent look positively _mild_. My people got out his way. More scared of him than they had ever been of you.

 

            “Anderson remarked a week later, that he’d always known John was your pet. But he’d never realized John was an attack dog. Which you had only _just_ been holding the leash of. We all thought he was tempering you. But _you_ had been restraining _him_. Whether you knew it or not. I would rather face you, in your fire and fury. Than John in his calm and coldness.”

            “I presume you questioned the SCO-19 men?”

            “I tried. But they all handed in their notice the day after. By the time I realized John was missing… So were they… The _only_ thing I can be sure about is that John isn’t out there hunting Moriarty’s people.”

            “You are certain? John can be very determined and loyal… Too loyal for his own good.”

            “Positive.” Lestrade blinked slightly at Sherlock’s last muttered phrase, “I asked him to promise me that he wouldn’t. He told me that he would not seek revenge. Though by what you said, there’s no one left.”

            “There are still a few people I have been unable to detain. In particular I have been unable to positively identify the new man in charge of the organisation. He uses the moniker TC.”

            “But you have your suspicions.” Lestrade wasn’t asking.

            “Moran was Moriarty’s right hand man. Logically he is most likely to be currently in charge. That would make TC stand for The Colonel.”

            “How?” Lestrade countered, “He’s been in jail since the day you… Jumped. He was the sniper on John.”

            “It is possible to run a criminal enterprise from inside jail.” Sherlock replied, “Difficult, but not impossible.”

            “He’s been in solitary. At his own request. Only people he ever sees are the guards… And he barely talks to them. Every time we try to put him back in general population he gives us more information in return for solitary. Every time… He’s scared. I don’t know why. I don’t know what of. But he’s not running anything.”

            “When did he go into solitary?”

            “About two or three months after his trial. Not entirely sure when. Someone fast-tracked the trial too. Moran has spent the time since you… Jumped. In custody. He’s not running so much as a Scout Group or a Book Club. I’m told all he does is read.”

            “There could still be secret messages passed that way.” Sherlock pointed out.

            “Doubtful… John had him scared silly. In the first interrogation I mentioned – just _mentioned_ – the possibility of bringing John in to talk to him… And he actually wet himself… From fear. Hell if _I_ know what John said to him before he came to get me.”

            “John brought him in?”

            “Yes… Well, he took him down. Moran was being looked after by a couple of John’s friends. I never really got their names. And I don’t think they _were_ their names. I mean, I know John called one of the SCO-19 guys Alan… And there wasn’t an Alan on the squad. I checked.”

            “What other names do you recall?” Sherlock demanded.

            “Not many.” Lestrade shrugged, “Only those who stuck the closest to him. I remember Alan. Seemed to be someone John trusted. There was a Lieutenant Stone. Very old English Gentleman in manners. Not old himself… Just old-fashioned manners. He had an eye-patch. And… His arm moved funny.”

            “How? Which arm?”

            “His left. I’d almost say it was a prosthetic… But it couldn’t have been. He had finger movement. There’s nothing around that advanced… Stone stayed pretty close to John. Alan came and went. I tried to get close, but… There was this American. I think he was American, at least. Looked Asian. Dark hair, dark eyes. He was the one heading everyone off. He only let people he knew through. John called him Tommy, but the others called him Storm or Stormy. He seemed… He definitely knew John. There were a few other Americans. But they came and went. Most of the people came and went. They just spoke a few words with John… One man stayed longer. He was older. Stone snapped off a salute, so he was obviously ranking. But I couldn’t get close… Ben!”

 

Lestrade snapped his fingers as he said the last name. He moved quickly to his desk drawers and pulled one open.

 

            “Ben?” Sherlock frowned, “Another name I presume. One you have a potential lead on.”

            “Ben was the guy making all the phone calls for John.” Lestrade had pulled out an old notebook, “The first friend John turned to for help. I have an address. We had to pick up Moran and another one of Moriarty’s men from Ben’s shop. It’s… Not where you’d expect John to go, though.”

            “Why not?”

            “It’s a Sex Shop.” Lestrade blurted it out, bright red, “Little alley way shop. John seemed very blasé about it. Simply said that they stocked restraints. I _pray_ that is the last time I see someone brought in like that… It was highly disturbing.”

 

Lestrade held out the notebook open on the right page.

 

            “Just… Be careful.” Lestrade instructed, “I don’t think John could take loosing you again.”

            “He is stronger than you believe.”

            “I know. But you made him watch you _die_! God, Sherlock! What were you _thinking_? Were it not for his friends… He’d have taken his gun and followed you.”

            “John is too strong for that.”

            “I don’t know. Seems to me he rebuilt his whole life around you, after the Army. And then you took it away. You were his foundation.”

            “I had no choice. Moriarty was going to kill…”

            “John, Mrs Hudson and me.” Lestrade ticked off, “I know. I’ve known for three years. I knew the minute you jumped… _Hell_! I knew _before_ you jumped. I was racing up the stairs to stop you. I knew you were going to jump. I just didn’t know you had a plan. I thought that _was_ your plan. Your stupid method of saving all of us. When John had already done so… It’d almost serve you right if you never found him.”

            “I would be lost without my blogger.”

            “Shame you didn’t think of that before you jumped.” Lestrade fired back, “Did you even think what you were _doing_ to him?”

            “It was necessary for the deception to be successful. John is not a skilled actor.”

            “Did you go your service? Did you hear what he said about you?”

            “I was outside. It was too risky to go inside.”

            “He called you his best friend. His _best_ friend, Sherlock. And I believe he meant it. Best friends don’t do this to each other. Be careful. Be gentle. Don’t hurt any worse than you already have done.”

            “That is not my intention. I require his presence. It will make my deductions of the identity of Moriarty’s replacement easier.”

            “Well, just don’t get yourself killed by him. I think that would break John. Look, try the shop. Ask for Ben. I’d forgotten about him. But he seemed pretty close to John. And protective.”

 

Sherlock merely nodded vaguely in reply. The address firmly in his memory, he swept out of Lestrade’s office.

 

            “And don’t get… Caught.” Lestrade half-called out to Sherlock, before realizing that if Sherlock hadn’t been caught on the way _in_ he was not likely to be caught on the way _out_.

 

            “Damnit!” Lestrade suddenly declared to the empty room, “He didn’t tell me _how_ he got in. Or even _who_ I should be looking for!”

 

He moved to his computer and started pulling up all the old Moriarty files. There might be something in all the notes that might just help. He was _damned_ if he was letting another Moriarty run loose in his city. And the nickname sounded familiar. If only he could remember _why_!


	4. Chapter 4

Meanwhile Sherlock was assimilating all the new data he had collected, both before Lestrade had caught him and during the conversation.

 

Scotland Yard had no information on TC. So Moriarty’s replacement wasn’t as inept as Sherlock had initially assumed. Either that or Scotland Yard had had a serious ineptitude problem over the past three years.

 

John had effectively cut himself off from Scotland Yard as a whole. If the Doctor wasn’t communicating with Lestrade he wouldn’t be communicating with anyone from the Yard.

 

Whether this was a conscious decision or whether it was John trying to distance himself from reminders, Sherlock wasn’t sure.

 

Sherlock still had two problems to contend with. The identity of Moriarty’s replacement, TC. And the location of his Boswell.

 

Quickly he shelved the first issue. He could sort out that problem once he had John back in his rightful place. Which was, of course, right by Sherlock’s side.

 

Sherlock decided his first step would be to visit Ben’s shop. John was a social person. He required people around him on a regular basis. It didn’t matter if it was only the one person. But he did require people. If John had discontinued regular contact with Lestrade and daily contact with Mrs Hudson, he would have turned to others to get his daily dose of human interaction. Ben seemed to be a prime candidate for this.

 

Particularly given that Sherlock had managed to use Lestrade’s computer to check that John was not working in any medical professional capacity in the whole of London. The best -chance Sherlock had at finding him was to follow the small trail John would have left behind.

 

After all, it wasn’t as if John would be _actively_ trying to hide. He just didn’t know that Sherlock was looking for him. If he knew, then _obviously_ , he would come at once.

 

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Sherlock declined to enter the shop immediately. Better to watch the place to get a better idea of what it was like. And he might even see John enter. Though that was more a wistful hope, he knew. Otherwise Mycroft would have been able to provide the information.

 

The main reason was that Sherlock had learnt the value of caution while he had been on his own. Rushing in without due thought had nearly gotten him killed a time or two… Hundred.

 

The shop didn’t seem that well visited. A few people slid in and out, most of them nervous about being spotted. Checking behind them for people they might know.

 

Some, in fact most, did not seem to buy anything. They came out with nothing extra in their hands. Though sometimes their bags were a little heavier or their pockets a little fuller. A few came out with a non-descript brown bag with white string handles. No identifying marks on the bag to lead back to the shop.

 

Clearly the shop appealed to those who required anonymity. Knowledge of its existence was no doubt spread by word of mouth. Perhaps a tasteful website, but no more than that.

 

After several hours, Sherlock waited until the shop was empty of all customers before entering himself.

 

He noticed that it was carefully lit, enough light to see the products on the shelves and on display, but dim enough to make it seem that faces were unrecognisable. The tills had lights which shone brightly enough on them to seem to blind them to their customers’ faces. Yet it wasn’t quite as it seemed.   The shop staff could see more clearly than the atmosphere gave the illusion.

 

The shop was also carefully arranged. There was an almost straight line between the door and the till. And there was an almost direct correlation between the distance of an item from this line and how risqué the item was perceived as being.

 

Those with simpler tastes could safely ignore the more esoteric items available. Indeed if they were careful not to cast their eyes around, they could ignore that such things existed.

 

Sherlock dismissed the offered items as those he would expect from such a shop, as he preferred to settle his eyes upon the man behind the counter.

 

Wiry, not particularly tall, but taller than John. Hidden strength, behind his deceptively slim frame. Jeans, a t-shirt and a thick jumper. Longish, brown hair, with a few grey hairs mixed in, probably about shoulder length, pulled back into a pony-tail, apart from a few loose strands, and a braid that ran down just behind his right eye, two of the strands were hair, the last was brown leather.

 

A few leather bands around his wrists just peaking through the cuffs of the jumper. Nothing fancy. More like simple plaited strands of leather than the more dramatic black bands that most people seemed to favour.

 

A military bearing, though the man was slouched slightly. Favouring his left leg. A recent injury, judging by how he occasionally shifted weight back onto it, and then off again.

 

Tanned. Evenly spread. But not the light tan of someone who had recently been abroad. This was darker. He had spent some considerable time in a sunny climate. Most likely a native. It had even bleached his hair slightly. The man was cold despite the unusually warm weather outside and the heaters inside. So a hot climate as well.

 

He wasn’t uncomfortable around the products, but he wasn’t too happy about being there. Sherlock came to the conclusion that the man was more used to the outdoors life. A theory supported by the few healing scrapes on his hands and face. Not from fights, more likely from trees of some kind.

 

Sherlock had adopted the appearance of a man of middle to low income. Someone that wouldn’t be thrown out as being homeless, but also not someone who would attract too much attention. At least not on the streets. If Sherlock was correct he would be remembered in this shop for at least a little while.

 

            “You Ben?” Sherlock asked, deliberately adopting a slight Welsh accent.

            “No.” The man shrugged, “Ben’s not here. You a friend?”

            “Heard he might know where a friend of mine is.”

            “Lot of Ben’s friends are friends of mine. Ask away.”

            “Looking for John.”

            “I know a lot of Johns.” The man shrugged, “You need to be more specific.”

 

Sherlock knew the man was lying. He _knew_ who Sherlock meant. And he was nervous about it. Suddenly John’s disappearance took on a slightly darker tone.

 

            “John.” Sherlock pushed a very worn photograph across the counter.

 

He would never tell anyone, but that photograph had been a source of much comfort to him during his years abroad. Reminding him of what he had to come back to. That he would always have John’s friendship.

 

            “Ain’t ever seen him.” The man replied quickly after looking at the picture.

            “Could I see Ben? Ask him?”

            “Ben ain’t here. He’s gone. Abroad.”

            “Where?”

            “Said something about sand and sun. He’s always wanted to see Hawaii… Don’t know when he’ll be back. I’d look elsewhere for your friend. You won’t find him here.”

 

Sherlock backed off. He knew the man was lying. He could tell the man was nervous.

 

This wasn’t someone who made decisions. He wasn’t a natural leader. He was placed here by someone else. Told to respond as he did.

 

He would report the encounter up the line.

 

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Several hours later, about an hour after the shop had closed, but the man had not yet emerged, Sherlock was still watching the building. He was certain that the man was living in the room above the shop. Which implied that he was not just standing in for Ben. He had _replaced_ Ben.

 

Then the equipment he had brought with him started to work. The man was making a phone call. Sherlock’s fingers flew over the keyboard as he tried to trace the other end of the line, even while he listened in.

 

            “Endeavour, this is Quatermain. We have a problem.”

            “What is it?”

            “Someone came in asking about John.”

            “You’re sure?”

            “Showed me his picture and everything. No-one’s asked about him in three years.”

            “What did you do?”

            “Deny, deny, deny. He also asked for Big Ben.”

            “And?”

            “Well, last I heard Ben was talking about sun and sand. So I implied he was on holiday. Hawaii.”

            “And what did he do?”

            “Left… ‘Bout three hours ago. I wanted to make sure. But no-one’s looked for three years. Why now?”

            “Did you post the card?”

            “Bran did. Went off without a hitch. Random route. Random post office.”

            “You sure it was random?”

            “Asked DM to role the die. Who the hell is he? The police never bothered. Mr Poppins gave up actively looking after a month. All we have to do is keep John away from CCTV. No one could _possibly_ trace it back to us.”

            “I don’t know. Something’s changed though. Did you get a name?”

            “No. But there’s no one _to_ look. He’s go no one.”

            “Well, clearly there’s _someone_. Listen, you and Bran just keep your heads down. Don’t make waves. Live in de Nile if asked. And keep us informed. You’ve got the easy job.”

            “Easy? You call this _easy_?”

            “I’m the one who has to tell Leo and TC. Want to swap?”

            “Oh God. Good luck. You’ll need it.”

            “Well, TC doesn’t shoot messengers at least.”

            “How’s he doing?”

            “Halfway through his latest victims. I might just tell Leo and let _him_ tell TC.”

            “I’d call you chicken, but I don’t envy you. Do I get relieved out of here soon?”

            “Soon as your injury heals. Then it’s back to your home-away-from-home.”

            “Good. I hate the city. Roll on Africa.”

            “You and your Africa. See you soon… If I survive Leo and TC.”

            “You will… I hope.”

 

The phone call ended.

 

For a moment Sherlock sat where he was. Then he noticed the pain in his palm. Looking down he could see that he’d managed to clench his fist so hard that he’d drawn blood.

 

Sherlock had been chasing minor annoyances all around the globe. Running missions for Mycroft in-between. And yet… And yet his John had been taken by the very people he had been trying to protect his Doctor from.

 

And they had had his John for almost three years.

 

TC had John.

 

Well, logically such a situation could not be allowed to continue.

 

And as Mycroft had failed Sherlock once, his aid would not be required.

 

Lestrade was an option, but… No.

 

John was Sherlock’s. So Sherlock would be the one rescuing him.

 

It was Sherlock’s fault that his John was in this mess. He was the one who had trusted Mycroft’s people to protect his John.

 

So Sherlock would fix the problem himself.


	5. Chapter 5

The phone call that Quartermain had made wasn’t to anyone in London. It was to a small country estate, far away from prying eyes in the heart of the garden of England.

 

A nearby village pub provided Sherlock with some information about it. There was a company of men on the estate. All apparently with military bearing. And there were a few things that could get them to obey instantly. The names Leo and TC were most commonly used as threats.

 

Though surprisingly apart from a few pranks and drunk and disorderly incidents there had been no problems with the men. One old man referring to them as “Gentlemen of the highest order”.

 

Sherlock logged the discrepancy as being sensible. If Moriarty’s group didn’t cause trouble in their backyard, so to speak, they would be less likely to be found.

 

However he was surprised that they seemed to be staying in a pack. It would be more sensible to be spread out. People could not betray what they were not aware of. While splitting a big criminal organisation into smaller groups did make communication between groups that were necessarily unaware of each other more difficult. It increased security.

 

Either TC was over confident. Or he had his people too scared to turn on him.

 

Either outcome was equally likely, as was the possibility that both were true.

 

Sherlock watched the grounds as best he could from a distance for a while. The level of security seemed relatively low, but also concentrated around the main house of the estate. The outbuildings seemed to be being used as additional accommodation and training areas.

 

If John was being kept on this site, he would be in the central building.

 

Sneaking in at midnight was a foolish move, Sherlock knew. So he waited until two hours later. When no one would suspect it. Everyone expected an attack at midnight. But two o’clock in the morning, no one expected.

 

Security was tight. But not so tight that Sherlock couldn’t slip through. There were holes in the camera coverage. The timing of the patrols weren’t perfect. There was a pattern. Hard to discern. But it existed all the same.

 

Sherlock managed to get to the main building without being spotted and after a bit of investigation found an open window to enter through.

 

He was in a dining room. Large enough for all the men he had seen on the grounds and more. There was a mixture of wooden tables in there. Some round. Some rectangular. All different sizes. And all with mismatched chairs. If any of the chairs _did_ match it was not by intent or design.

 

It gave the room an informal homely air. Quite out of keeping with both the style of the house and the proceedings that no doubt occurred there.

 

On a hatch opening, leading to the empty kitchen was a selection of fruits, salads, sandwich fixings, bread and cereal. Along with milk, juice and water. There was even a kettle and some tea and coffee packets on a nearby table.

 

Sherlock crept through the door into the hallway. There didn’t seem to be any life. And no cameras. It was if they were over-confident. Sure that no one could infiltrate as far as he had.

 

There was a set of stairs, behind wood and glass, that led down to the basement. Sherlock looked at it for a long moment. While his John could be down there, he wasn’t sure. It was rather cliché.

 

Sherlock moved quickly, but quietly down the stone steps; he carefully moved over the last three steps which were wooden, so that he made no noise.

 

He looked around. There were still no cameras, and no people that he could see. Though there were many doors and at least three passages leading off from the stairs. Any one of them could lead to the cells. Possibly all of them.

 

Sherlock looked around and saw that there were more scuff marks leading off to the left and behind him, than either the forward path or the right path.

 

Sherlock followed the more worn path. Creeping through wide corridors, dodging around abandoned utility trolleys.

 

Finally he reached the end of the passage. A single door stood in front of him. No lock.

 

There was no way that this door could possibly lead to the cells. But, just in case they had gotten smart, Sherlock pushed open the door.

 

It was a laundry. The huge machines silent due to the late hour.

 

But the room was not empty. One person stood in the still room. He was folding clothes. A pair of tinted goggles pushed up on his head. His head turned towards the slight creek of the opening door.

 

Grey eyes widened at the sight of someone he didn’t recognise. The man dropped to the floor and pulled a gun, while still keeping hold of a shirt. Clearly not thinking too clearly.

 

Sherlock looked around the room quickly. The only method of communication was right by the door. An intercom. The only exit was the door he was standing in.

 

If he could take the man down, before he reached either of those, or made sufficient noise to alert someone else, he could continue his search without worry.

 

It was clear that the man, although he was accustomed to a weapon, was not a natural fighter. Else he would have fired immediately.

 

Although the man had drawn his gun, he hadn’t immediately fired. That meant he was not certain about his ability to take Sherlock down, or that he was more scared of Sherlock being able to take _him_ down.

 

The tinted goggles were designed to protect the wearer’s eyes. More than likely from light. By the way they were up on his head, he didn’t need them for the light in the room, but was so accustomed to wearing them all the time, that he didn’t think about taking them off.

 

Most likely a regular computer user. Trained to use a weapon, but not totally comfortable with it.

 

Sherlock’s mind ran over the various methods of taking the man down.

 

            “You won’t get out of here.” The man spoke up, “I don’t know how you got in. But whatever you came here for, you won’t get it out of here. We’ve had better than you try and fail.”

 

There was confidence in the man’s tone. He truly believed what he was saying. However he was also unnerved. Surprised that Sherlock had even made it _that_ far.

 

But Sherlock dismissed the remark. He didn’t really care what the man thought. He was wrong. Sherlock was going to get what he came for. He was going to get John away from there. And they had never had anyone better than him before.

 

Sherlock was one of a kind. There was no one out there who was his equal. Except, maybe, his brother.

 

Sherlock turned off the lights.

 

While it may seem that he was giving the advantage to the man, as it was his home territory, Sherlock knew he was only giving the _illusion_ of an advantage. He knew the location of every item in the room.

 

He also had a more creative mind as to potential uses compared to most.

 

Though he didn’t need it.

 

The man was virtually blind. Relying on the moonlight seeping through a handful of small windows for light. The moon was crescent and it was a cloudy night.

 

It was almost pathetically easy for Sherlock to circle round behind the man and take him down.

 

            “Where’s John?” Sherlock murmured into the man’s ear, one hand ready to gag the man should he try to scream or yell.

            “John?” The man frowned, “I don’t know a John.”

            “Who would know?”

 

Whether the man was going to answer or not, Sherlock would never know. The door was opened and the light turned on.

 

            “Ramses!” Sherlock’s captive yelled, “He’s hunting John!”

 

The man in the doorway (dark hair, even tan, overseas, scholar) slammed his hand down over a small alarm by the door.

 

            “Let him go.” Ramses ordered, “The whole base is alerted now. He’ll bring you no advantage.”

            “I could trade him.” Sherlock countered.

            “Would never happen. We’d kill you first.” Sherlock’s captive grinned, “We don’t negotiate. We’re the Tommies!”

            “And if I threatened to kill you?” Sherlock tightened his grip.

            “I’d die gladly.” The man snapped back, “I’d die for any of the Tommies. And they know that.”

            “Any of us would.” Ramses nodded, “Grem, go limp!”

 

The man in Sherlock’s grasp went limp. The dead weight caused Sherlock to stumble slightly; giving his captive almost enough time to get away.

 

 

Sherlock lashed out quickly, knocking Grem unconscious. Then he charged Ramses. The two of them fought for a while. Sherlock using every lesson in fighting, every class of anatomy he had ever studied to gain an advantage. Ramses was in reply using every dirty trick in the book, and then some. Though Ramses never once moved to draw his gun.

 

A knife, appeared after a while, but the time it took for Ramses to unsheathe the weapon gave Sherlock the time to grab the offending wrist and break it.

 

The gasp of pain was stifled, and still Ramses fought.

 

However hampered by the broken wrist, it was easier for Sherlock to subdue him and then knock him out.

 

Sherlock dashed down the corridor, leaving the unconscious bodies behind him. He had to find a hiding place. As good as he was he could not take on an entire army.

 

He would hide. Then later, when the furore had died down and they assumed he had escaped, he would find John. And he would rescue John.

 

Their guard would be down to an escape, because they would be expecting an attack from without.

 

But first he had to hide.

 

 _There_! His hiding place stood like a beacon, beckoning him.


	6. Chapter 6

It was the perfect hiding place. What sort of person would look for him in the bottom of an elevator shaft?

 

The only way it could be better was if he’d managed to get on top of the lift. And he hadn’t had the chance. So the bottom of the lift was his best bet at the moment. When the lift came down to the basement, he’d climb on top of it then. For the moment he lay on the floor at the back.

 

He kept perfectly still, knowing that with his dark coat and the fact that the glass in the doors was only partially transparent he would be virtually invisible. The human eye was more likely to spot movement than anything else.

 

In addition the lift doors wouldn’t open unless the lift was in position. Not without something overriding the lift doors, as he had. They wouldn’t think that he could manage it, so they wouldn’t look.

 

But he’d managed it. A small electronic device, he had gotten used to carrying overrode the security measures.

 

Sherlock waited. He knew they would start searching at the bottom of the building. Working outwards from the laundry room. They would secure the exits first. Which was what had allowed him the time to deal with the two men he had been facing. No doubt they would clear each floor and prevent movement between them until the whole building had been checked.

 

At least, they would if they had more than a handful of brain-cells to rub together between them.

 

Sherlock heard a few men walk up to the lift entrance. He started to smirk knowing that they would pass him by.

 

But the footsteps stopped.

 

For a moment he thought they were calling the lift.

 

Then the doors opened.

 

            “You owe me ten quid.” One of the two men nodded at the other, as his torchlight caught Sherlock’s tall frame, “Told you he’d be here.”

            “Damnit!” The other muttered, “You coulda picked a different hiding place mate. The ninja came through here and pointed this one out years back.”

            “Up you get.” The first one instructed, sounding rather like he was talking to a dog, “Come on out. You’ve got nowhere to go.”

 

Sherlock slid into a defensive stance. There were only two of them. Neither had gone for their guns. They were clearly intent on taking him alive and unharmed. Despite their numerical advantage, he had an advantage in that he didn’t particularly care if they were harmed or not. And while they were both broader than him, in the confined space of the lift-shaft they could only come one at a time.

 

Looking at them he turned his mind away from assessments of their family and history in favour of noticing weaknesses and strengths. The first was favouring his left shoulder a little, a recent injury, strain. The second didn’t seem to have any obvious weaknesses, but was the smaller of the two, and more likely the most nimble.

 

            “I don’t Adam it.” The first muttered, “I think he thinks he can take us.”

            “I think you’re right.” The second retorted, “He don’t know us that well, do he?”

            “Bit of a fool then. You don’t walk into the Lion’s Den without knowing what a lion is.”

            “Right. You don’t walk into the Tommy’s Gatehouse, before knowing what a Tommy is.”

            “Shall we get him?”

            “Oughta. Leo wants him detained.”

            “After you?”

            “Got a better idea.”

 

Sherlock barely had any time to analyse what was going to happen. The second man pulled a truncheon from a holster on his leg. Sherlock had seen it earlier, judging by its apparent size and weight it was a normal truncheon, one of the old straight-stick variety, which had been phased out almost everywhere.

 

Sherlock only really had time to notice that while the hand-grip was dark grey rubber, the rest was a dark coloured metal, before it struck into the edge of the lift-shaft.

 

            *Electrified.* Was Sherlock’s last thought before the shock reached him.

 

He felt all his muscles contract as the electricity surged through him. It was only a passing shock, but it was strong enough to cause him to drop to the floor.

 

            “Jeeze!” The first muttered as roughly pulled Sherlock’s arms behind his back, “How high do you have that thing set? Leo won’t be happy if you kill him. And TC?”

            “I know. I know.” The second shrugged, “But I didn’t. You got him?”

            “I got him.” The first declared, “Better check with Leo if he wants him in the Peter.”

            “Tare to Leo,” The second spoke into a radio, “Cocker and I have an intruder. Lift-shaft, basement level. Where do you want him?”

 

Sherlock couldn’t quite make out the reply that came through the radio. He was still trying to shake off the effects of the electrical pulse, while analysing the cuffs he was now wearing.

 

Normally they would be easy to remove, but the electricity had interfered with his fine motor control. He couldn’t reach his lock-picks and wasn’t entirely sure that he could use them, even if he could.

 

He was hauled out of the lift-shaft, a hand under each elbow keeping him upright.

 

            “Easy mate.” Tare muttered, almost as if he was a friend, “Don’t want ya ta take a tumble.”

            “Looks like Ramses got a few good licks in.” Cocker stated, “Take ‘im up in the lift?”

            “Be easier.” Tare agreed, “Leo wants him in the Mess Hall.”

            “Quiz?” Cocker asked.

            “Probably.” Tare nodded, “And to keep an eye on him, till we know he’s the only one.”

 

In some ways it was the easy chatter that confused Sherlock the most. As if he was considered to be such a small threat that they weren’t going to bother treating him like one. It was almost as if he were some sort of pet or a recalcitrant child.

 

They helped him into the lift when it arrived and then carefully escorted him to the Mess Hall.

 

He was pushed down into a chair. It wasn’t done unkindly nor the chair particularly uncomfortable. It was simply done to keep him out the way.

 

With all the people moving around, it wasn’t the right time to try to escape. Besides, he hadn’t yet found John.

 

Even if they put him in a cell, he could escape and then he would be near John. The cells would be in one location, not spread all over the place.

 

He just had to hold his peace. Considering how they had treated him so far they weren’t going to kill him. And given his current disguise they would have no idea who he was.

 

Several people came into the room and went straight through. They were in various states of dress. Some were fully dressed and armed. A few were armed, but in pyjamas. One man was in a pair of boxers, boots, a bulletproof vest and a holster, nothing else. A woman stopped to look him over with a glance, and _she_ was only in a nightgown, belt with holster, a knife sheath on each arm and for some strange reason a sailor’s peaked cap.

 

            “Any sign of any others?” She demanded.

            “No, Brit.” The two shook their heads.

 

It was almost amusing the way she had to crane her neck to look them in the eyes, being nearly a head and a half shorter than them.

 

            “Where was he?”

            “Lift-shaft, basement level.” Cocker shrugged, “Tare got him.”

            “He say anything?”

            “Not a word, ma’am.” Tare replied, “And if I may suggest, Brit? Put something else on before Radar turns up? You know what he’s like.”

            “Radar will just have to cope.” Brit snapped back, “The alarm sounds? I grab what I need. Any injuries?”

            “None.”

            “How are Grem and Ramses?”

            “Being made comfortable until we’ve cleared everywhere.” Tare stated, “Then A-Dale’s taking them to the hospital.”

            “Good.” Brit nodded, “I relieve you of custody.”

            “We choose to stay.” Tare replied, “Custody is yours. But back-up is always helpful.”

            “Any idea what he came for?” Brit asked.

            “Not a Scooby Doo.” Cocker retorted.

            “Right.” Brit nodded, “Well, if he hasn’t talked yet, he can wait till later.”

 

Sherlock looked Brit up and down. Normally the way a person dressed could tell him a lot about them. But Brit wasn’t really dressed. The information he could gather could only be told by her body and by her body language.

 

She was tanned, but not evenly. Been abroad recently, on business. Not body conscious or shy. Clearly comfortable. Well-toned. Musculature of a swimmer. Callouses on her hands indicated a sailor. Which matched the hat. High ranking in their social structure.

 

For about an hour Sherlock sat in the same chair watching the comings and goings of the inhabitants of the building.

 

Then in walked a rather imposing figure. Dark hair and stubble. Intense eyes. He was clearly not pleased.

 

Sherlock immediately identified him as the leader of the group. Most likely the mysterious TC. Though who the smaller figure following in his wake was, Sherlock would have to deduce.

 

Immediately Brit snapped to attention and saluted. It was a textbook Naval salute. Confirming her status as a sailor. At the man’s nod, she moved over to him.

 

They started to talk, in low tones so that Sherlock couldn’t hear. But he could lip-read even from a distance.

 

            “What do you know, Brit?”

            “Nothing much, sir.” She shrugged, “Taranis and Cocker found the intruder in the lift-shaft. He hasn’t spoken. I haven’t asked anything.”

            “Radar?” The man snapped.

            “Yes sir.” The smaller, spectacled figure spoke at the same time as the name was spoken, “I’ve compiled the reports. So far no other reports of infiltration. The Bailey is secure. The Gatehouse’s intruder is detained. And the Keep is undiscovered.”

            “Very good, Radar.” The man nodded.

            “Guards have been increased for all sites.” Radar continued, “Gaspode and Ron are preparing to back-track the intruder’s path.”

            “Increase security and get the trackers to back-trace this man’s path.” The man ordered, apparently not listening to what he was being told.

            “I’ll contact Anarchy and see if she’s heard anything.” Radar nodded.

            “Contact Anarchy and see if there’s any gossip.” He ordered.

            “I’ll see if Timbl got any chatter.” Radar started to turn.

            “And check with Timbl if he’s heard anything.” The man called after Radar as he left the room.

            “Giving everything to Radar, sir?” Brit asked, as if it were perfectly normal.

            “Of course.” He shrugged.

            “At least this doesn’t look like a co-ordinated attack, sir.” Brit smiled.

            “Some days I worry about him.” The leader sighed.

            “Radar, sir?” Brit frowned, “He’s fine.”

            “You’d never know he was married with three little girls. Lord help him when they hit puberty.”

            “General, don’t worry about that… Most of us have bets on how’s he’s going to cope when they get their first boyfriends.”

            “They’re not even at school yet, Brit!”

            “So?” Brit shrugged, “You know what we’re like.”

            “Impossible.” The General sighed.

 

Sherlock was only peripherally aware of people coming in and out of the room. However he did notice when _this_ man walked in. While everyone else walked with purpose through the room, he was moving slower, but also with purpose. He was, more significantly, the only person who had an upset expression on his face.

 

Other people were angry or worried or panicked or determined. But this man was hurting.

 

            “General Leo.” The new man saluted, as he approached Brit and the leader.

 

Inwardly Sherlock sighed, he hadn’t found TC. Though he was a high ranking member of the remnants of Moriarty’s Web. So probably, given the title, he was TC’s second in command.

 

            “Britannia,” The man looked the woman up and down clinically, “That explains why I saw Radar blushing. If you’re going to give the poor man a heart-attack, can you wait till _next_ week? I’ve got money riding on it.”

            “A-Dale,” Leo nodded, “How are our boys?”

            “Gremlin came round. Ramses is still out, and has a broken wrist. Don’t know how this will affect the upcoming missions.”

            “We’ll cope.” Brit shrugged, “I say we just hand him over to the police. It’s breaking and entering. Plain and simple. Maybe even throw in battery. Just to ice the cake.”

            “Normally, I’d be behind you the whole way.” A-Dale shrugged, “But according to Grem… He’s hunting John.”

 

It wasn’t hard to see the shock and horror that flickered across the others’ faces. Even if it was swiftly pulled back under control. They both turned to look at him, before turning back to A-Dale.

 

            “You’re sure?” Leo demanded.

            “Would I be telling you, were I not?” A-Dale raised an eyebrow, “That makes two people in two days, sir. You _know_ I don’t believe in coincidences.”

            “I don’t either.” Leo sighed.

            “Gut’s telling me there’s something going on.” A-Dale continued.

            “You don’t believe in your gut.” Brit frowned.

            “No,” A-Dale shook his head, “But I believe in TC’s gut. He knew there was something wrong.”

            “I know.” Leo ran a hand through his hair, “That’s why I sent Lance with him. Look, I know you feel guilty A-Dale…”

            “Forget that!” A-Dale cut him off, “Two people. Two days. There shouldn’t be anyone looking for John. There’s no-one left.”

            “What about the Landlady?” Brit suggested.

            “She’s always been satisfied with a card twice a year.” A-Dale retorted, “The Inspector? Came up with his own reasons for John leaving. The ex-girlfriend moved on. The locum agency couldn’t care less. Even the Detective’s brother stopped looking. Why now? And they got so _close_!”

            “So who, what, where, why and how then?” Brit sighed.

            “The usual six honest serving-men.” Leo breathed, “Any clues?”

            “Why you looking at me?” A-Dale shrugged, “I don’t know any more than you do now.”

            “But you’ll find out.” Brit stated more than asked, “That’s what you do.”

            “Till then,” Leo was firm, “We put him in the cells. We’ll interrogate him when it’s actually a decent hour. _Then_ we hand him over to the police.”

            “Cocker, Tare!” Brit turned to face the guards more directly, “Wrap him up. He’s for the cells. With a bit of luck we should be done with him, before TC gets back and finds out about this debacle.”

 

There was quite a crowd in the room now. Fortunately no-one between Sherlock and the top people. Though they were starting to move to block him from them.

 

            “Wait.” A-Dale stepped forward, “Let me see him.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock found himself pulled upright and pinned in place as the man approached. He hadn’t been able to get a good enough look and read from him earlier.

 

Automatically Sherlock assessed him. Soldier. Non-smoker. Two guns and a knife. Concealed. Probably military issue. Been abroad recently. Probably on business. Not in charge. Injured. Left ankle. Sprained. Second child. No pets. But been in contact with at least two dogs recently. Unmarried. In a committed relationship. Children. Two. Small. Possibly not his.

 

A-Dale stopped just short of Sherlock and looked him up and down. A frown was clear on his face, and it only deepened the more he looked.

 

His hand shot out and pulled off the false nose.

 

            “Wash him and check him for contact lenses.” The man stated.

            “Why?” Cocker asked.

            “Because if I’m right… And I think I am… He’s someone TC will want to see.”

            “Damnit A-Dale!” Someone yelled, “Just _tell_ us!”

            “I do believe that Sherlock Holmes has managed one last miracle. He’s pulled a Lazarus.”

            “We have to tell TC.”

            “Like _hell_ we do!” A-Dale fired back, “I am _not_ setting him up for a fall.”

            “I do agree, old boy.” A new voice put in, “He would not take that well. Take him. Wash him. Confirm and confine.”

            “You sure about that? If it _is_ him… Someone will notice if he goes missing again.” Brit frowned.

            “Doubtful. He hasn’t made his return public, else it’d be all over the news. We haven’t missed it, have we Endeavour, old chap?”

            “Not a peep.”

            “He had very few people he cared about. And who cared about him, which is the rather more important point in this discussion. So he’s probably only revealed himself to his brother, the lovely Mrs Hudson and maybe the policeman. Of those only his brother would really start looking for him. I rather doubt that he would know where to start. Judging by the profile of Sherlock Holmes we have established, he is unlikely to have informed his brother about his current location and plans. We have successfully kept John away from his eyes for three years. A few days wouldn’t be beyond our skills, I do believe.”

            “He’s right. We can do this.” General Leo put in, “And he’s right on all accounts. TC would _kill_ us if we were wrong on this. Or worse… Confirm and confine.”

            “Yes sir!” The room snapped to attention.

            “Dolittle, release the Cujo Pack.” Leo carried on.

            “All of them? You know what’ll happen if I do that. You remember last time?”

            “Yes.” Leo nodded.

            “To which question?”

            “Both. I remember. And all of them.” Leo repeated, “No arguments.”

            “I won’t be held responsible for the fate of any intruders or trespassers.”

            “Not asking you to. Release them.” Leo was firm.

 

The man, who had to be Dolittle, turned and ran from the room.

 

            “Cocker and Taranis, full debrief. My office.” Leo carried on giving orders, “Kalten, prepare our best cell. The ninja one. Garion, Scotty, deal with our visitor’s shower. I’ll send some clothes up. Brit, tighten security further. A-Dale, organise the trip to the hospital for Gremlin and Ramses. Make sure we get a full debrief from Ramses. Endeavour, contact Anarchy. I want up-to-date intel about Mister Poppins and his movements. Also, move Bond to keep an eye on the Inspector. Increase the watch on the Landlady. Alert all those who are on medical and annual leave. Inform our Cousins as well.”

            “Do you want Mister Poppins to be distracted as well?” One person spoke up, the voice matching that of Endeavour.

            “Can Anarchy do that without compromising her position?” Brit asked.

            “Not for long.” Endeavour shrugged, “But she said she could do it for two days.”

            “Tell her to hold off.” Leo instructed, “We might need it later. For now, just keep us informed on his movements. Everyone else, back to your posts. You have your orders.”

            “Sir!”

 

Sherlock barely noticed as his guards switched on him. He was more interested in trying to deduce the secrets he had just heard. He had names though. And could piece together things from the context. They had someone watching Mrs Hudson. They also had someone close to Lestrade. He wasn’t sure who Mister Poppins was, but it was clearly someone they were wary of.

 

He was marched up a set of stairs and pushed into a shower room. Only one of his guards followed him. The man quickly freed his hands and stepped back to lean against the door.

 

Sherlock fell into a defensive stance. He might be a prisoner, but there was no need to make it easy for them. It wasn’t that he was trying to escape at that point. But that he knew that if he didn’t fight, it would make it suspicious. His best chance was to make sure that they didn’t know about his plan to rescue John despite of his current predicament.

 

The guard didn’t even move. He just folded his arms across his chest.

 

            “Listen mate,” The man’s voice was soft and calming, but also firm, “If you fight, you might get past me. You might even get past Garion. But you will _not_ get away. And then, we’d have to take steps to make sure that you didn’t try again. TC gets very upset if we give him damaged presents. A broken ankle wouldn’t kill you… But you wouldn’t be able to run.”

            “And if TC gets upset at you for that?” Sherlock asked.

            “He’ll forgive me… Eventually.” Scotty shrugged, “He forgives all of us. For the hurts we give him. And we have given him many.”

            “He’s using you.”

            “He never asks us for anything. Never has. Never will.”

 

The conviction in the man’s voice told Sherlock that he’d never be able to persuade the man otherwise.

 

            “I won’t co-operate with you.” Sherlock stated.

            “Either you strip and shower,” Scotty was firm, “Or we take you outside, hose you down with a pressure hose and cold water and cut your clothes off you. Your choice. Either way, you’re getting washed. Look, I’ll even go outside once you’re in the shower. I have no intention of doing anything to you. You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.”

 

Sherlock dismissed the idea of hiding in one of the shower stalls as he stripped. It was unlikely that he would be allowed to get away with that. He wouldn’t give them the chance to make him feel inferior.

 

            “And the contact lenses.” Scotty held out his hand.

 

Sherlock was quite impressed with the man’s control. He wasn’t looking downwards, but he wasn’t staring at Sherlock’s face in a determined manner to stop looking down.

 

Sherlock didn’t argue, after quickly washing his hands, he handed them over. He didn’t fancy having Scotty’s large fingers anywhere near his eyes.

 

Once he handed them over, he stepped into a nearby shower stall.

 

            “There’s shower gel in the dispenser.” Scotty called out, “It also works as a shampoo.”

 

Sherlock didn’t turn the shower on until he heard Scotty leave the room and shut the door behind him.

 

With the shower turned on, Sherlock quickly explored the room. It was easy to see why this particular shower room had been chosen. The two sash windows only opened a few inches at the top and at the bottom there was a metal grating screwed into the external stonework. It would take several hours to remove the screws even with a screwdriver. And the room had a disappointing lack of potential weapons. In particular a lack of potential _concealable_ weapons, for later use.

 

There were no scissors or razors. No toothbrushes or packs of dental floss. All of his clothes had been removed, so he didn’t have access to his lock-picks or anything else stashed in them.

 

He couldn’t even use the cistern lids on the toilets as an impromptu weapon. As they were attached by hinges. And the bars for the shower curtains were firmly screwed in place. Removing them would make too much noise.

 

But then again, he had yet to find John.

 

So he couldn’t escape just yet.

 

Though he wasn’t sure how they were going to play it. They would either keep him firmly separated from John, so that they could use John as leverage against him. Or put him near John, to taunt him with his ineffectiveness.

 

He would have to see. For now, he would take the shower and wash his hair, removing the small amount of remnant make-up he had used to disguise himself. Sometimes he found it incredible how little it took to fool a person. Though, clearly it was not enough to deceive A-Dale.

 

About five minutes through his shower he heard the door open again, before quickly shutting. He held still, listening for any movement or sound to indicate another presence in the room.

 

Quickly finishing, Sherlock emerged from the shower, drying himself off with a towel. A small pile of clothes were just to the side of the door.

 

Sherlock quickly pulled on the boxers, grey tracksuit bottoms and black t-shirt. He noted that they weren’t a perfect fit by any means. The boxers were a tad too large in the waist, as were the tracksuit bottoms, but the elastic bands meant that it was close enough so that they wouldn’t fall off easily. Though the legs of the trousers were also a little short. The black t-shirt, in contrast, was too big. Nearly hanging off one shoulder, and falling several inches below his hips.

 

However it was the jumper that caused Sherlock to pause. Cream in colour, wool by material, knitted in a relatively simple design. Sherlock could tell, just by looking at it, that it would be too short in the sleeves and length, but too broad in the shoulders.

 

However, he had to confirm that detail. He lifted the jumper and buried his face in it.

 

John’s comforting scent met his nostrils.

 

It was a rather elegant and subtle piece of intimidation.

 

Had John not worn the jumper in the last three years, it would not have smelt as strongly of him. John had no doubt worn the jumper in the last two weeks.

 

They were making sure that he knew that they had John and that they knew of the close relationship the two shared.

 

It was also an indicator that he was unlikely to see John in the near future. No need to prove what they had already proven with the jumper. No need to weaken their position.

 

There were no shoes or socks. Clearly a method of keeping him under control and unable to escape.

 

Not that it would actually stop him, should it come down to it. But people often made assumptions like that.

 

Sherlock pulled the jumper on. He wasn’t going to give them the chance to take it away from him.

 

It wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted his John. But he would take what he could get…. For now.

 

Dressed and ready for whatever might come next, Sherlock stepped out of the shower room.

 

Scotty and Garion were leaning against the banister rail of the stairs, Garion watching the door, Scotty watching the stairs. Though the man turned to face him, as the door opened.

 

            “Turn around.” Garion instructed, holding up a pair of cuffs.

 

Silently Sherlock obeyed. He knew he couldn’t really resist in the small space between the banister and the door.

 

And once again he was reminded that he wasn’t going to leave his John behind. Who _knew_ what they had done to him in the past three years.

 

For that matter why had they taken him in the first place? With Sherlock dead John had no value. And they had believed that he was dead. The shock and anger on their faces was too real to be faked… And on too many faces as well.

 

So either only TC had known that Sherlock was alive, or they had taken John for some other purpose.

 

And Sherlock could not see any reason why they would target John specifically. There were other doctors. Ones who would be more than willing.

 

            “Blindfold?” Garion asked.

            “If he’s even _half_ as smart as the stories say,” Scotty shrugged, “There ain’t no bleeding point.”

            “It’s just that pushing a guy around with a blindfold is a lot more satisfying than pushing one that isn’t.” Garion shrugged, “And I’ve been on the receiving end far too many times.”

            “Well, if you’d stop letting yourself get captured, boyo.” Scotty teased, as he carefully started to lead Sherlock down the corridor.

            “The last time wasn’t my fault.” Garion protested, “Blame Wolf.”

 

It was frustrating the way this group would allude to things, but never go into enough details for him to deduce anything substantial.

 

However his surroundings were enough distraction for the moment. It was an old Tudor red-brick building. Not congruous with the appearance from the outside, which was of a Victorian Sandstone house.

 

However at some point in the Victorian period no doubt the owner decided to modernise. Probably added the two wings as well, judging by the changing style as he entered the West wing, having gone down a flight of stairs.

 

At some point the area had been used as the house’s chapel, Sherlock noted. The iconography was still visible. Surprisingly it seemed that the unit, the Tommies, had changed very little of the internal decoration. Though it did make for a good and easy cover, should they be investigated.

 

There was nothing to cover up, so they could be safe in the knowledge that no-one would see anything.

 

Though how they would explain what the place was being used for, Sherlock could only guess.

 

Radar was sitting in a glass encased room, his desk was positioned so that he could see them approach. He nodded in greeting, as Sherlock was turned ninety degrees to face another door.


	8. Chapter 8

Scotty knocked gently on the door.

 

Though the door certainly looked like painted wood, it didn’t sound like wood. And Sherlock heard metal shift, moments before the door opened. The door opened smoothly and without a single sound.

 

Sherlock glanced at the doorframe as he was pushed into the room. He had been right. The doorframe was thicker than it needed to be and there were shining metal circles set slightly back in holes.

 

No doubt that when the door was shut and locked it would take a great deal of force to open the door.

 

The several large windows were an obvious weak point in the room. Too obvious.

 

Sherlock noted the deep window frames, with carefully placed cupboards to contain internal window shutters, which were normal in a building of the age and style he was in. Usually used at night to keep light out, rather than to protect the windows themselves.

 

Sherlock had no doubt that these particular shutters were not the standard wood. And if they couldn’t be deployed by the press of a button, he’d eat that rather silly hat he’d been given all those years ago.

 

Scotty and Garion pushed him down onto a wooden stool, which had clearly been brought in for that exact purpose. Particularly given the two comfortable chairs, sofa and office chair that were available.

 

Leo was sitting in the office chair, leaning on the desk in front of him. Sherlock could see several photographs scattered on the surface. He was in every single one. All of them that he could see were dated from before he faked his death. John was in a few of them. But most of the time he was alone.

 

Brit was perched on the front of the desk. Her legs swinging idly. She had actually gotten dressed, to a degree. A pair of shorts and a loose t-shirt. A-Dale was leaning against the wall, his fingers flickering over a tablet.

 

Leo nodded at the pair of guards and they dutifully left the room. The door shutting behind them with finality.

 

            “Well, A-Dale,” Leo sighed, “It seems you were right. For all that I wish you weren’t.”

            “In all fairness,” A-Dale shrugged, “I wish I had been wrong as well. TC won’t take this well.”

            “We _could_ just drop him in an oubliette.” Brit suggested, “And forget him.”

            “He’d find out.” Leo and A-Dale spoke as one.

            “Need I remind you of the Vegas Incident?” Leo reminded.

            “In my defence,” Brit was indignant, “There was no possible way to predict that it would go that bad, that fast.”

            “He didn’t care.” A-Dale pointed out, “My ears are still ringing.”

            “He _did_ just have to go on this mission.” Brit muttered.

            “There was no-one else.” Leo countered, “You _know_ they’ll only speak to TC.”

            “They won’t even talk to me and I was there at the time. I’d be insulted,” A-Dale shrugged, “But I totally understand. _I_ still follow the man.”

            “Loudly complaining the whole way,” Brit snorted, “You’d follow the man into Hell armed with only a snowball, and you wouldn’t stop pointing out a better way to do it. But you’d follow him.”

            “True.” A-Dale smirked, “I see Radar found him some clothes.”

            “And TC will kill him for that later.” Brit pointed out, “I _know_ he won’t approve of the jumper.”

            “When do you want to interrogate him?” A-Dale asked Leo.

            “Why bother?” Leo raised an eyebrow, “TC’s back in a few days. He’ll get all the answers we want and need much easier and much quicker than we can. And quite honestly I don’t think any of us can be sufficiently objective. I don’t think he’d survive the experience. Not in one piece.”

            “Yeah,” Brit nodded, “I’d be tempted to break out my knives. And I don’t really care about the answers to where he’s been, what he’s been doing, why he’s here and all that rubbish. I just want him to know how badly he…”

            “Walls, Britannia.” Leo reprimanded.

 

Instantly the woman stopped talking.

 

            “Not to say I don’t agree.” Leo continued, “But…”

            “Understood, sir.” Britannia hung her head slightly, “Sorry, sir.”

            “I vote for sticking him in a cell until TC comes home.” A-Dale declared, “Be safer… For him.”

            “This is not a Democracy, A-Dale.” Leo sighed, “However I agree. Take him down. Both of you. I find one scratch on him later and there’d better be a bleeding good reason… Preferably literally. And preferably not him.”

 

The pair moved. A-Dale pushing himself off the wall and Brit jumping lightly to her feet, much like a small child.

 

The more than slightly mismatched pair hauled Sherlock up to his feet.

 

Together they took him out of the office, down the corridor and back down into the basement. They took the second turning on the left leading him down a corridor. There was a door not far from the turning, which opened easily.

 

Barely ten steps from that door was another one, this one with an iris-scan. Brit stood on her tiptoes to be scanned. However Sherlock did not fail to notice how the tiles she stood on were slightly different in colour to the rest and they were separated by a thin, almost invisible line in the mortar. It would appear that the system took into account eye stealing, just in case.

 

The door opened inwardly, and the small party walked in. Two men snapped to attention. The room was small, but there were three door options. Two on the wall directly facing Sherlock and another on the left hand side.

 

            “Prisoner for Ninja Cell One.” Brit stated calmly.

 

The pair of men moved to two small keypads on the far right of the small antechamber. Sherlock was turned to face the left-hand door, his back to the keypads.

 

However he was able to make out the sounds of the men inputing the PINs simultaneously. It was a rather useful security measure he acknowledged. Both PINs were no doubt required. And the requirement to do it simultaneously was sneaky. Most people wouldn’t even consider it an option. And given how Sherlock could only hear one set of muffled beeps, the two men were in _perfect_ unison. And probably using different codes.

 

The door opened and Sherlock was walked down a small corridor. There were nine doors. Four on the left. Four on the right. One on the end. Cameras were discretely hidden in the ceiling and above the doors. No doubt every inch of the corridor was covered by them. Certainly Sherlock couldn’t see any obvious blind spots.

 

The lights in the corridor were very dim. Barely enough to see, and what light there _was_ was blue in colour.

 

The doors were glass. Probably one-way mirrors, judging by the lighting. Though Sherlock couldn’t see anything of interest in the cells. Each door had a separate keypad outside of it. And the last door on each side and the far door also had an extra button, protected by a plastic cover.

 

The far door also was lit up, so Sherlock wasn’t surprised at all, when the door was opened and he was pushed in.

 

The cuffs were released by A-Dale, who quickly stepped back and shut the door. Sherlock turned to face his own reflection. As he suspected, the door was a one-way mirror. A clever method. No-one thrown into the cell would fail to realize the fact. The door was probably highly reinforced, despite its nature.

 

Sherlock looked around his cell. It wasn’t all that large, with no places to hide from the view of the door. That was due to the fact that the room was not a regular shape. The door was slightly set back, with sloped walls leading up to it. Those walls merged into the bottom half of a rectangle, approximately ten feet wide.

 

Overall the cell was sparse. A squat toilet in the far left corner and a futon in the far right. A single Styrofoam cup was by the futon and a water dispenser was approximately in the middle of the back wall, set into the wall, with no visible parts except for the hole for the cup to go in.

 

The lighting was set into the ceiling, about ten feet above the floor, just out of Sherlock’s immediate reach. And it was protected by plastic set into the ceiling, with no visible access marks.

 

The door had no handle and fit perfectly into the frame. The hinges were on the outside.

 

No doubt the door was also soundproofed, given that he couldn’t hear anything at all.

 

There were some small air vents near the ceiling, but none of them larger than his wrist.

 

No windows.

 

All in all, seemingly an inescapable cell.

 

But there was always the human element to consider.

 

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It took longer than Sherlock expected before a meal was delivered by Radar. He had expected the man to be delivering the first meal. Particularly given that he had appeared to be the physically weakest of all the men that Sherlock had seen. It seemed logical that he would be used to deliver food to a prisoner, as he would be used to being given all the jobs that no-one else wanted to do.

 

However it seemed that they weren’t taking chances and it wasn’t until breakfast on the second day that Radar appeared.

 

All of Sherlock’s food had been finger food, on paper plates. Nothing to be turned into a weapon.

 

Radar placed the plate down near the door. Sausages with bread it could be wrapped in to save burning his fingers.

 

            “Married. Children. Three.” Sherlock started rattling off a mixture deductions and confirmed facts, “At least one under five. Learning to draw. You should look into felt-tips that are more washable. All girls. You’re not a warrior. You’re not a criminal. You sit in a little office and do paperwork. Everything that happens passes through you. Though you can’t stop it or change it.”

 

Radar straightened up, eyes wide with shock.

 

            “It doesn’t have to be this way. I can help. Protect your family. Protect you. They’d never find you. You just have to…”

            “Betray them.” Radar spoke softly, “Tell you what I know. Tell you about everything hidden. Tell you where John is.”

            “Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but firm, “And the identity of TC.”

            “I’m no Judas.” Radar snapped, “I don’t stay here out of fear. I have greater respect than you realize. I stay here because they are mine and I am theirs. I walked into my position because I am the best at what I do. I was asked. And I came. I owe nothing to you, but my enmity, because you hurt the best man I have ever known. The man that is the _reason_ I have my three little girls and my wife today. I owe TC I debt I can never repay. And he has asked for nothing in return.”

 

Radar stepped back through the door, leaving Sherlock frowning. He had clearly made a mistake in his deduction. Gratitude being Radar’s primary motivation instead of fear.

 

Though that didn’t explain his nerves around the others. Unless it was related to him not being a true criminal like the rest of them. He was probably more a white-collar criminal.

 

Sherlock picked up the food, though he wasn’t much of an eater, he knew the importance of keeping his strength up. The past years had taught him that, and he knew the pain of hunger more intimately than ever before. It was not something he wished to revisit.

 

He was chewing the sausage sandwich, when things started to get… _Swirly_ … And Kaleidoscopy…

 

He could hear things… Noises that he knew weren’t real.

 

Not in the water. Doubtful that it was in the food. So it was probably the air.

 

The buttons outside the doors, were probably rigged up to a sedative system… No, a hallucinogenic gas.

 

That was probably the last sensible thought Sherlock had for a while.


	9. Chapter 9

When Sherlock came to his senses again he was in a different cell.

 

He frowned as he looked around the room. The door was the same, as was the futon and squat toilet and the water dispenser and the polystyrene cup.

 

But there was a small window. Bared and with wires running through the glass, to prevent breakage. Still far too small for even his slender frame to fit through.

 

But it was there. A segment of a circle, allowing natural light in. High up, so that it was almost touching the ceiling.

 

The walls of the room weren’t slanted. So it was perfectly possible to stand in a corner and not be seen from the door.

 

It didn’t make any sense. They had reduced the security. He was certain of it. He couldn’t see any cameras nor any microphones.

 

Using the bars, he lifted himself up to peer out through the window. He approximated that it was about mid-afternoon, judging by the shadows… Though it could just as well be mid-morning. The window looked out onto a garden. Though it was at ground level; as in literally.

 

What little Sherlock could see of the garden, it was predominantly roses and grass. He remembered passing through a small formal rose garden which was just to one side of the Mess-Hall. So it was possible that he was still where he had begun.

 

But it was just as possible that he was somewhere else entirely. He hadn’t studied the garden enough to know its complete layout. Only fixing it in his mind as a place to avoid, due to the gravel paths. And there were asphalt and concrete and stone paths as alternative options, so why take the risk?

 

Sherlock also had no way to determine how long he’d been unconscious for. It could have been mere hours or it could have been days. He doubted it was weeks, as he had no injections marks or any of the physical hallmarks of being intubated.

 

He wasn’t dehydrated or undernourished, so it must have been less than three days.

 

He was delivered what was presumably his supper in the same manner as before. A new face.

 

Sherlock assessed him. Military. Strong. Used to taking orders. No significant other. Been abroad. Business tan. But not anywhere hot. Simply sunny. Probably with snow. No guns on his person. But several knives and a garrotte.

 

The man delivered the food and left.

 

Sherlock ate the food and then settled down on the futon, taking advantage of the quiet to get his thoughts and deductions in order.

 

Several hours later, the door opened again. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the window. It was dark outside. The light inside the cell had dimmed, mimicking night. Yet he had still been unable to see into the corridor.

 

The man carried no plate. No food. No weapon.

 

Though Sherlock could see the empty holsters both of gun and knife. This man had _deliberately_ disarmed himself before stepping into Sherlock’s cell.

 

He didn’t say a word. He just leant against the wall next to the door and stared at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock stared back, taking in the man and deducing everything he could. Brown hair. Green eyes. Married. Children. Teenagers. Jet-lagged. Still stiff from the plane. Eyes sore. Been reading on a screen. Well used to exercise. Military trained.

 

A thousand little things allowed Sherlock to draw conclusion after conclusion. Allowed him the exercise and relief his brain had been craving.

 

The man didn’t try to speak. Didn’t seem to want to. He just stood there. A silent sentinel.

 

After about twenty minutes, the door opened again and A-Dale stepped in taking up position next to the first man.

 

            “Didn’t think you’d come here.” A-Dale remarked.

            “I wanted to see.” The first man shrugged, “I don’t know what I was expecting though… But it wasn’t this.”

 

A London accent, upper class. Clearly a Gentleman in education.

 

            “Something more?” A-Dale suggested.

            “Yes…” A slow nod, “Something more.”

            “How did our cousins take the news?”

            “Not well. The Motor Pool were threatening dismemberment by wild cars. The Masters were offering their expertise and had the Apprentices training by sending them to find suitable dump sites.”

            “And Hawk?”

            “Trying to stop nearly the entire Pit from going AWOL to form a lynch mob. TC’s quite popular over there, if you remember.”

            “Ouch. Hawk got enough antacids? Or should we send him some more?”

            “Doubt he’d turn them down. Though he’d probably appreciate a bottle more. Has he spoken?”

            “To Grem, to demand John’s location. To Scotty, probably to figure out stuff about TC… But since then?… Only once. To Radar. Trying to talk the guy into siding with him. No doubt planning for an escape.”

            “Radar?” The man was shocked and appalled, “He’s a bloody Hufflepuff! No _way_ he would betray us.”

            “You been reading Harry Potter again?”

            “Picked up the wrong Kindle by accident and the film on the plane wasn’t that good.”

            “That’s what? The third time in six months? There’s only so many times you can claim it was an accident.”

            “Anyway… So what did Radar do for revenge?”

            “What makes you think he did anything?”

            “It’s _Radar_.”

            “Okay, so he hit the sedative button when he left.”

            “That’s actually pretty mild… For Radar.”

            “Ah… He probably would have done more… But… You remember the missing canister from the Yellow Submarine incident?”

            “Of course… No!” The man barely managed to smother a snort of laughter.

            “Oh, yes.” A-Dale was grinning broadly, “We’re flushing the system. Hence why he’s in this cell, not Ninja One.”

            “No escape attempts?”

            “None so far. Not sure if that means we’re due a spectacular one or not.”

            “When’s TC due back?”

            “Few more days. They ran into a complication.”

            “You’re worried.”

            “I can’t help but feel responsible. If anything happens to him…”

            “I’m just as much to blame as you are.” The unnamed man shrugged, “If not more so. You just gave me his name. I offered the job. Look, he’ll be fine. He’s always fine. He’s tough… And Unicorn won’t let any harm come to him. You _know_ that. First sign of things going properly South and he’ll scrub the whole thing.”

            “No. He won’t. They’ve worked too hard to get to this point. TC won’t let them pull out, until he’s taken it all the way to the end. You _know_ him. He never does anything by halves. Not professionally. Not personally.”

            “True… But that’s why we recruited him.”

            “This is all my fault.”

            “No. It’s not. And TC would never blame you, even if it _was_. He was what we needed. And we were what _he_ needed. And you know it.”

            “I need a drink. Fancy a cuppa?”

            “Yes. Only a handful over there know how to make a decent brew. And their blends aren’t my favourites. Though when they heard, they sent TC a care package.”

            “Their usual?”

            “No. Actual tea for once.”

            “Weird. Were they feeling okay? Come on, I want to hear all the gossip.”

            “I thought Intel Agents didn’t gossip.”

            “We don’t. We _listen_ to it though. Valuable source of intel, after all.”

            “True.” The man laughed at A-Dale, “Well, come on then. I’m not going to find what I’m looking for here.”

            “I know.” A-Dale shrugged, “We’ll get that when TC comes home. I know I’ll feel better when the good doctor is back where he belongs.”

 

With that the two men pushed open the door and left.

 

Sherlock pondered the conversation for a long while. He was well aware that it could have been staged. But there would be little benefit in that.

 

Unless they were planning on letting him “escape”.

 

However the conversation had flowed too easily and the men had given too many unconscious clues as to their honesty and validity of their statements.

 

All Sherlock could do was try to figure out what they were planning and what the possible outcomes of all the moves on the Chess-Board he faced had. Though that _was_ a fair bit more difficult given that he couldn’t see all the pieces.

 

But that’s what made it _Interesting_.

 

123456789

 

It was another two days of almost perpetual boredom, apart from what his brain could provide before something happened that broke the routine.

 

It was about the mid-afternoon when it occurred. This time two men opened the door.

 

Garion and Tare stood there. Barely concealed glee on their faces, despite the mud streaks that had clearly been picked up doing some sort of obstacle course.

 

            “Up you get.” The order was calm as Tare hauled him to his feet, “They want you in the Mess Hall.”

            “I’ll say,” Garion grinned, “We wanna show you to TC.”

 

Sherlock didn’t really fight as they dragged him back through the corridors, his hands cuffed behind him once again. Better to save his energy and gather information.

 

Not that there was much more information for him to gather.

 

He had only a few questions left to answer:

 

The nature of TC.

 

The position of the group in Moriarty’s organisation (surely he would have heard about such a unit before now?).

 

The location and status of John.

 

Of the three the last was the most important to Sherlock and the primary reason why he hadn’t tried to escape as of yet.

 

John hadn’t arrived. However he had managed to glean enough data to deduce that John was in the company of TC and had therefore just arrived.

 

The Mess Hall had been rearranged. Every table was pushed to the side, chairs stacked, apart from one, which was positioned almost in the centre of the room. A carving chair with armrests made of solid dark wood, probably stained oak. It was clearly heavy and very sturdy.

 

The room was full though. It seemed as though the entire base had turned out for what was going to happen.

 

            “Put him in the chair!” One suggested.

 

Sherlock glanced at the chair again. If he was restrained in it, as he assumed he would be, it would be hard to escape from.

 

            “No.” Another countered. “TC will want full access. Hands behind his back. Two holding him upright. And a bag on his head for the reveal.”

            “Ain’t that a bit cruel?”

            “You’re saying he doesn’t deserve it? For what he did?”

            “He deserves it alright. But that doesn’t mean we should give it.”

            “You getting philosophical on us?”

            “Maybe.”

 

The chair was lifted up and carried to the side of the room. From somewhere that Sherlock couldn’t see a hessian bag was produced and put over his head.

 

It wasn’t really that uncomfortable at first. He’d had worse. Though it was interfering with his hearing as well as preventing his vision. However he could feel his breath heating the air inside the hood.

 

But it wasn’t yet stifling. The bottom of the sack wasn’t pulled in, so the air could circulate to a degree.

 

He could feel a hand on each arm. Two people restraining him from running.

 

Not that if he was planning on it. He was finally going to get to see TC. He had so many theories and deductions about the man. Nothing he had been able to confirm.

 

And Sherlock loved the satisfaction he got when he learned that he was right.

 

Sherlock heard the crowd move to surround them. So that he couldn’t be easily seen from the door.

 

            “How long will they be?” A voice called out.

            “Radar said the debrief was wrapping up.” Another replied, “Shouldn’t be too much longer. Leo said he’d bring him straight here.”

 

There was only a few minutes between that comment and the sound of the door opening.

 

            “Captain on deck!” Sherlock heard the entire room snap to attention at the command.

            “Once again,” A voice called out in exasperation, “This is not a blasted _ship_! There is _no_ need to pipe me aboard! You do this every ruddy time!”

 

Sherlock froze. His muscles tensing at the voice. He knew it. Hadn’t heard it for many years. But he knew that voice. It had changed certainly, but it was still recognisably the same. He knew the tone… The inflection… Every nuance.

 

It was older. It was… Not harsher, but different in some small way.

 

But he would have known that voice drugged out of his mind. Never mind muffled by a bag.

 

Yet it could not be. Because it could not. That man could not be TC.

 

It did not make sense. It was impossible.

 

            “It’s because we love you, TC.” A cheery voice declared, with a sing-song tone.

            “We got you a present.” Another added.

            “Again?” TC sighed, “Who was a bleeding idijt and injured themselves _this_ time?”

            “No injuries. Just a present.”

            “I suppose I’d better see it.” TC sighed in clear frustration and if Sherlock wasn’t blindfolded he was _certain_ that he’d see a hand running through hair.

 

There was a shuffling as the group split to open a path between Sherlock and TC.

 

Sherlock heard a sharp intake of breath.

 

            “Honestly, can’t I leave you idjits alone for a _minute_?” TC’s steps were quick, but firm as he approached, “What have you done this time? Kidnap someone? I pray to _God_ it’s not Wales, again. Else we’re all Fubar. Leo, what were you thinking? You’re in charge of this merry band of lunatics. _Not_ me!”

 

A quick tug pulled the bag off Sherlock’s head.

 

The room fell silent.

 

Sherlock blinked in the sudden brightness, though he had expected it. But he kept his eyes fixed on the figure in front of him.

 

Bright brown eyes. Blond hair. Slight tan, business not casual. Few extra wrinkles than his last appearance.

 

Dressed in military clothes, though they also wouldn’t be too out of place on the streets of London.

 

It was John.


	10. Chapter 10

It was John.

 

Shock and disbelief clearly visible on his face.

 

It was almost as if the whole room was holding their breath as they watched the scene. Sherlock was only peripherally aware of them still being present. His whole world had focused down on John, as he desperately tried to deduce what had happened in the three years they had been apart.

 

Nervously… Cautiously… As if John expected the vision in front of him to disappear at any moment, he reached out and placed his hand on Sherlock’s neck.

 

For a few heartbeats they stood there. Only connected by John’s fingers on Sherlock’s carotid artery.

 

Then John’s hand slid up so that his palm was in front of Sherlock’s mouth. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

 

They stayed like that for a few breaths.

 

John’s hand fell back down to his side. His breathing was loud in the silence. Sherlock thought that were it possible he would hear John’s heartbeat. His dear friend was visibly shaking and visibly shaken.

 

Several times John opened his mouth to speak only to lick his lips and close them again.

 

            “My dear John.” Sherlock spoke first.

            “Sherlock.” John managed to get out, his voice only audible due to the extreme quiet around them.

 

Sherlock would later swear that he never saw the fist that impacted with his face. Nor the second blow that probably broke his nose and landed only seconds after the first.

 

            “Take him away!” John snapped, “I don’t want to see him. Put him wherever you’ve been storing him. I need a drink.”

 

With that John turned, with a military snap and precision. He marched away, hand running through his hair.

 

Sherlock noticed the man who had stood by John’s side throughout. It was A-Dale. The one who had identified him despite his disguise.

 

            “Throw him back.” A-Dale sighed, “John will want to see him later.”

            “Agreed, old boy.” Another nodded, from his position just off to one side, “I had best go moderate TC’s alcohol consumption. I for one, have no desire to relieve the incident that occurred _last_ time. Will you be joining us A-Dale?”

 

Sherlock lost the last part of the conversation as he was dragged away from the group. His compliance this time was more due to shock and confusion than anything else.

 

His mind was desperately trying to piece together what he knew to be true with what he had been confronted with.

 

John had _not_ been party to Moriarty’s conspiracy. The man was as honest and as true a man as Sherlock had ever met. He also had no skill in deception. And had put his life literally on the line many times simply for Sherlock’s sake.

 

John was no criminal. Too honest. Too caring. Too innocent. Too pure.

 

Sherlock was revaluating every piece of hard won data that he had collected over the last two years, eleven months and five days.

 

New information could, and in this case _did_ , invalidate previous conclusions. However correct those conclusions seemed based on the data available at the time.

 

TC was _not_ the man who had stepped into Moriarty’s position.

 

It was impossible to even consider it.

 

If, as it seemed was the inevitable conclusion, that TC was John, then all information about TC leading a criminal organisation could be dismissed.

 

Because John was not a criminal.

 

Sherlock barely registered when the hands left him and he was locked back in his cell. The cuffs still firmly on.

 

When the realization that he was alone sank in, he moved to the back of the cell and sat down on the floor, easily manoeuvring, despite the cuffs.

 

He was trying to get comfortable. He was also still trying to put the pieces together and get a coherent picture. He had begun back at the beginning… Allowing every impossibility he had eliminated to be reconsidered in light of his new data.

 

Absently-mindedly he rang his tongue over his split lip, tasting his own blood.

 

He looked up as the door opened again, half expecting to see John there.

 

            “He hasn’t had an easy time of it, you know.” A-Dale remarked, leaning against the door-jam, “You nearly broke him. I’m not entirely sure you haven’t.”

            “Then you should be with him. Not me.” Sherlock replied, “This is not the logical step.”

            “Yes it is.” A-Dale sighed, “Because I’m not his best friend. I’m not his closest friend. I’ve known him the longest, but… Well, I’m not what he needs. Not right now. But I am what you need. Or at least I have what you need.”

            “Information.” Sherlock conceded.

            “Correct.” A-Dale nodded, “As I said, he hasn’t had an easy time of it. Harry died. Three months after you. Drunk driver. Hit and run. We always knew it would be the drink that finished her off in the end. Just never expected it to be someone else’s.”

            “Who killed her?” Sherlock demanded.

            “Oh we caught the guy. Not too hard. His partner freaked out the next day at the sight of the car. Turned him in… The true irony? She was going home after an AA meeting. Her second. Five days sober.”

            “I did not know she had died.”

            “But you know the funny thing?…” A-Dale seemed to be ignoring the fact that Sherlock has spoken, “It didn’t affect him half so much as your death. He was a wreck after that. Had to call in a few of the cousins to help us. If TC was a weaker man, you would have broken him. Or don’t you care?”

            “Caring is not an advantage.” Sherlock spoke steadily.

            “Who told you that? Your brother?” A-Dale laughed, “He’s wrong. When you care about someone you give them a little piece of you. And when they care about you, you get a little piece of them. We are all the sum of those pieces that those who care about us have given to us. TC would not be the man I know if he didn’t care. And through caring comes courage. From courage comes strength… And _that_ allows John to be the man he is. That is what allows him to keep going when others would fall. Don’t fool yourself. Don’t believe that a small group of people who care can’t change the world. It is the only thing that ever has.”

            “It is _not_ an advantage. I do not care. I never have.”

            “Then why can’t you leave?” A-Dale retorted, “I have no illusions. Those chains on your wrists? They’re not what is keeping you here. It’s John. The simple fact that he’s here keeps you here. You are a prisoner of your own emotions. You care. You just refuse to acknowledge it.”

            “If the cuffs are not necessary, then remove them.”

            “No. They’re not necessary. But I don’t particularly _like_ you right now. If I can cause you some discomfort I will. Just not to the point where it would harm TC. He needs you to have this information. Just as you need to have it. As much as it pains me to give you _anything_.”

 

It was clear that A-Dale was not particularly fond of Sherlock. But his devotion to John went beyond his hatred of the Detective.

 

            “I’m not really surprised you did this… TC told me about HOUND. Seems to me that for all John cares for you… You don’t care anywhere _near_ the same amount for him.”

 

Sherlock kept his mouth shut.

 

            “I mean, I can sort of understand what you did. God only knows our cousins have had some of their own pull that one before. And they forgave them… But you? You made him _watch_! That was unnecessary.”

            “It was necessary. His reaction needed to be believable.”

            “No. It wasn’t necessary.” A-Dale fired back, “You did more harm than you know. He’s seen enough of his friends die. And he thought that was all behind him… But you did it _again_! You know, he nearly broke. That man is the most honest, brave, strong men I know. And you nearly broke him. That man… He is a man I am _proud_ to have call me his friend. Not proud to _call_ him friend. Though I am. Proud that _he_ calls me his friend. And he deems you his best friend… Something… Something I would probably deem to be the greatest honour in the _World_. More valuable than any medal I could ever earn. And every single one of us here would probably agree.

 

            “If it weren’t for the fact that I know he needed to see you more than I needed revenge or an outlet for my anger and outrage… I would have killed you and disposed of the body so that no-one ever found you. And I could of. Don’t doubt that. I may not be as smart as you. But I know people. People who wouldn’t blink if I asked them to dispose of a body. There wouldn’t even be a _shred_ of evidence linking me to you. After all, who tries to find the murderer of a man who committed a very public suicide three years ago?

 

            “It seems to me that I value John more than you. He’s a good man. And you hurt him. There’s quite a few of us, who take that quite personally.”

            “You call him John. You knew him before he got his nickname.”

            “Yeah, I did. I underestimated him. Just like you did. Only worse. I knew him back when he was just John. Just plain, little, ordinary John. Only he wasn’t so plain. He wasn’t so little. And he _certainly_ wasn’t ordinary… I was the one who named him TC.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly. A-Dale’s hand had risen on his shirt to stroke a particular patch sewn on the sleeve. It wasn’t the only patch. But it was clearly newer than the rest. But also in the middle of several others. Judging by the slightly different colour of fabric around it…

 

It was a replacement. For a previous patch of identical size and shape, yet not quite positioned in exactly the same place when it was sewn back on. This wasn’t the first replacement either. There were several shades visible. The other patches were still there, but they were basically faded almost into obscurity. Little tears and stains marring them.

 

This patch was cared for. Replaced when damaged. Colours still bright and shining… Possibly even removed before the rest of the shirt was washed and replaced each time.

 

It was hand sewn. Not quite perfect.

 

It was also a perfect match to another patch Sherlock had seen before.

 

            “That patch.” Sherlock frowned, “It’s not one I recognise. John was wearing one.”

            “It’s not official.” A-Dale shrugged, “There’s less than thirty of us who have one. The Three Continents Division. We only ever had four rules.”

            “I take it that they were important. Else you would not mention them.”

            “Yes.” A-Dale nodded, “One, no fighting among ourselves. Three, no one nicknames Jane Doe. Four, no one hides an injury.”

            “You missed one.”

            “Two, John is in charge because he is a scary, scary guy.”

 

Sherlock almost smirked at the answer.

 

            “We all thought he was just a Doctor. Red Cross, I thought. Just another ordinary doctor. He saved our lives. It was dark in the cell where they kept us. Dark, apart from what little light came through the window in the door. So we noticed, despite our exhaustion when that light went out. We heard fighting, but no gun shots. Then footsteps. We didn’t know if it was the guards or a rescue. Then the door opened. And he stood there. Alone. Armed… That’s when everything changed. I’d thought of him as a friend before. Someone I cared for. Someone I respected. But ultimately? Someone weaker than me. Someone for me to protect. Someone who needed my help to get out of the situation we were in.

 

            “He didn’t need me. Never did. Not that time, at least. He gave me a weapon. Told me to follow… I followed. Things have gotten in the way. But I’ve always known that he could call on me as his Iolaus, but not just for as long as daylight lasts. Any time. Any where.

 

            “He always says nothing important ever happens to him. And he’s right. It doesn’t.

 

            “He’s the fulcrum around which things turn. Without him? Things don’t happen. He _makes_ the important happen.”

 

A-Dale looked into Sherlock’s eyes.

 

Sherlock could see the intensity. The loyalty. The devotion. The friendship.

 

            “Then why were you not there when he was discharged?” Sherlock challenged.

            “He pushed us away. Didn’t tell us where he was going. Hid himself. He got a bad psychiatrist. One who thought that because John didn’t talk that he had trust issues. That because John had known nothing but the Army for years that he needed to adjust to civilian life, without the ties to his Army past. And John obeyed.”

            “Illogical conclusions. The fool was correct about the limp being psychosomatic though. However the tremor was not due to PTSD.”

            “I don’t think John could get PTSD if he tried.”

            “Apart from the psychiatrist being incompetent, what was your objection?”

            “She wasn’t cleared. Not for any of John’s missions. The ones that really mattered. So he couldn’t tell her anything. Couldn’t write about it either. Her methods didn’t work, because John couldn’t do them. He’s no traitor.”

 

Sherlock took that in. It made sense. John had never really talked about his time in the army, apart from veiled references. Such as the one to “bad days”. Sherlock had appreciated it at the time. It hadn’t been relevant. John’s past wasn’t what interested Sherlock. It was the then and there. The constant reliability, the unquestioning loyalty, the devotion. Those were the important things about John. John’s past had always been just that, the past. Irrelevant. Not necessary.

 

Yes, it had formed John, but it hadn’t been there. John had walked away and never looked back.

 

Until he had to, Sherlock realized.

 

            “Of course not.” Sherlock nodded, “He’s my friend.”

            “Was that so hard to admit?” A-Dale smiled, “Not that I think you’re a very good friend. Your friends don’t really get a good bargain with you.”

            “I don’t have friends.” Sherlock stated.

            “But…” A-Dale frowned.

            “I only have one.” Sherlock was firm.

            “And if he’s the first one you’ve had,” A-Dale rubbed his head, “It might explain why you’ve screwed up so badly… Don’t think this gets you off the hook. We’re still mad at you. But it does explain a fair bit. Don’t go anywhere. John will want to see you later.”

            “You are sure?” Sherlock was confused. “I thought…”

            “He told us to put you back where we had been keeping you.” A-Dale laughed, “John’s a tricky one to read, but I know him. He’ll forgive you. Even if you don’t deserve it. Man cannot keep a grudge for a crime committed against himself. Even when he _should_. He’s mad, yes. He’s angry. And we probably could have picked a better time, than when he’d just been debriefed from a tough mission… Look, you may know how to read a scene. To read a person. I know motives. I know emotions. And most importantly, I know TC. Better than you. Because TC and John? They’re the same. But they’re different… You’ll learn. I still don’t like you, by the way. I still don’t believe you deserve the honour you have been granted. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Never will be.”

 

With that last remark, A-Dale turned around and left the Detective in his cell.

 

Sherlock took in the information he had been given. And went back to the beginning.

 

Conclusions drawn based on the facts available at the time were not incorrect conclusions, simply conclusions made without all the facts. They were not invalid. Simply, not true.

 

Fact: Moriarty was dead.

Fact: Members of Moriarty’s Web had been turning up dead or arrested across the globe.

Fact: Members of a military style organisation had been spotted in the same areas as the incidents at about the same time.

Fact: Several members of the organisation had made mentions of TC.

Fact: Crime had gone down around the globe.

Fact: Sherlock had led to the arrest of several high level members of Moriarty’s Web.

Fact: John was TC.

Fact: John was recently abroad.

Fact: John was loyal.

Fact: Several members had made threats against Sherlock’s person regarding his treatment of John.

Fact: John was often referred to as a Captain.

 

Conclusion: John had been taking down members of Moriarty’s Web with the help of this organisation.

Conclusion: John was not the leader of the organisation.

Conclusion: This was a military organisation that John was a part of during his Army days.

Conclusion: John was a highly respected member of the group.

Conclusion: John had not been kidnapped.

Conclusion: John had gone to these people for _help_.

 

Tentative Conclusion: Maybe John didn’t need him anymore.


	11. Chapter 11

No food arrived for supper.

 

Sherlock could only wait.

 

He couldn’t pick the cuffs. He had nothing to use as a pick. And the cuffs were too tight to slip out of. However, he had managed to move his hands round to rest in front of him.

 

He simply sat there. Retreating to his mind palace. Trying to figure out the correct response.

 

The problem was that while he had learned how to better interact with people over the past three years, all of his clues had come from the same place.

 

Every time he got stuck he had asked himself the same question…

 

            “What would John do?”

 

Despite everything Mycroft and his parents had tried to teach him over the years, nothing had as much power as the gentle touch and soft words of an invalided Army Doctor.

 

And the occasional hard blow and harsh word.

 

Nothing had been so effective as a simple “bit not good”.

 

Only now he couldn’t use that method… Because John wouldn’t be _in_ this position in the first place. John wouldn’t have made the mistake.

 

And the look on John’s face… When he had fully realized what Sherlock had done to him… There was something Sherlock had never seen before. And he had believed that he knew all of John’s many expressions.

 

It was fully dark outside before the door opened.

 

Sherlock looked up through his hair at the entrance to his cell.

 

He surged, struggling to his feet, trying to catch what was pushed, not ungently into his cell.

 

Not what. But _who_!

 

It was John, the scent of alcohol on his breath. His eyes glossy, with small pupils and not focusing completely. A slight sheen of sweat on his skin. He was unsteady on his feet.

 

Clearly drunk. And to a degree Sherlock had never seen John stoop to before. Not even after the HOUND incident.

 

Part of Sherlock tightened at the thought that _he’d_ done this to John. He hadn’t been the one to put the drink in his grasp. Hadn’t been the one to pour it down his throat.

 

But he might as well have. And he knew it.

 

A glimmer of reflected light caught Sherlock’s attention.

 

Around John’s neck, on a leather cord was a key. Clearly the key for the handcuffs.

 

And it was also the same sort of leather that Quatermain had worn around his wrists.

 

Sherlock pulled John down onto the futon, before unlatching the cuffs and tossing them into a corner. He left the key around John’s neck.

 

            “How much did you drink?” Sherlock asked rhetorically, “This is unlike you.”

            “You died.” John slurred, “I saw you die!”

            “It was a trick.” Sherlock murmured, “I didn’t have a choice.”

            “You weren’t in Checkmate.” John snapped, “You weren’t even in bloody _Check_! I _spotted_ my Tail _and_ my Sniper. I took out Moriarty’s Queen. I swept the immediate board clear of all his pieces. Rooks, Knights, Bishops, Pawns…. There were _no_ pieces in play that were of any threat to you and yours.”

            “How?” Sherlock stared.

            “Afghanistan. Two. Tours.” John punctuated each word with a poke to Sherlock’s chest, “Flatmate. Eighteen. Months. And _years_ with this bunch of _lunatics_! I can spot a bloody sniper. I can spot a bloody tail. Wouldn’t still be alive if I couldn’t!”

 

Sherlock looked at John again. While John had moaned and complained before, there was a different tone to it now. Whether it was the alcohol or the betrayal, Sherlock couldn’t tell.

 

            “If you had just listened to me. We could have gone after the rest of the pieces together. But, _no_! The Incredible, Amazing, Genius Sherlock had to go it _alone_! Because no one can be as smart as him!

 

            “But you don’t _need_ to be that smart. Not to pull a thread and unravel it. Not when you’ve got friends and contacts around the World. Not when you know the World’s best Hackers. Not when you know the World’s best _Ninjas_. Not when you know the kind of people I know.”

 

Sherlock knew that half the stuff that came out of a drunk’s mouth was not true. At least not where it came to facts. They were highly subject to exaggeration and distortion.

 

But the _emotions_ were real. The emotions were true.

 

John _believed_ what he was saying.

 

At least at that moment.

 

            “And we _did_ it.” John continued, “We’re taking them down. Around the World. Don’t matter where. Don’t matter who. They ain’t there any more. Each one leads us to the next.

 

            “Sure it ain’t as fast as _you_ could do it. But you’re _dead_! So I’ll do it slow, but do it _right_!”

 

Sherlock smiled slightly. That was John all over. He would take his time. But he would get there. Sherlock _knew_ that John was smart enough to beat the police a dozen times over. Only his intelligence was always shadowed by Sherlock’s. Sherlock had _tried_ to be patient. To draw out the intelligence to let it shine.

 

But he had never learned patience before. He got frustrated too easily. Took over when it was taking too long.

 

However Sherlock had had to learn patience. Out on his own. Waiting and watching. Three years of learning patience with people.

 

It hadn’t been easy. But he’d had no choice.

 

Sherlock was only peripherally aware of John’s words. Too intent on reading the play of emotions running across John’s face; of reading the events in the years that had affected his John; of reading the minutiae of John’s thoughts, displayed so openly on his face and in his actions.

 

John was still ranting and raving. But his words were slurring more as the alcohol was starting to overcome the anger.

 

Sherlock managed to predict the moment John would fall unconscious, only being out by five seconds at most.

 

As John slumped against him in sleep, Sherlock smiled slightly.

 

Sure things had changed, but it didn’t matter. Everything was right in the world. He had his John back. And his John was safe and well.

 

Everything else he could deal with later.

 

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Sherlock woke up leaning against the wall, as he had fallen asleep. John’s head still in his lap, the doctor still curled up on the futon.

 

Sherlock found his hand automatically running through John’s short hair, much as if he were petting a cat. He found it interesting the way John tensed at first. Muscles bunching as if preparing to attack.

 

But he knew that John needed more sleep. Could see it in his face earlier. The other men had been right. John _had_ just gotten back from a stressful and difficult _something_. Clearly out in the desert. Clearly not combat related. Or at least no combat was _intended_. But there _had_ been fighting. And then the inevitable fixing of what and who got injured.

 

He was like that. Always dealing with the hurts of other people before his own. Always making sure that everyone was safe, before checking on himself. Sherlock knew, just _knew_ , that the only reason John had left him with the intruder during the incident involving the Woman was because Sherlock had the gun, and knew how to use it.

 

John _needed_ his sleep. No doubt John hadn’t slept before this in over thirty six hours. Probably closer to forty eight… Maybe seventy two. Any more than that and he wouldn’t be tensing at this point. He’d still be completely unconscious. Nearly comatose.

 

Sherlock knew. He’d done some rather unnecessary experiments on John’s ability to function while sleep-deprived. Though he knew that John hadn’t realized.

 

He would have ranted if he had.

 

But that wasn’t the issue right then. The issue was John and his need for sleep. If he continued to tense, he’d wake up. Sherlock knew that.

 

Sherlock, for a moment, _wished_ he had his violin. He had often used it, when he had significantly overstepped the line in regards to the unwritten, unspoken rules that made up a good portion of his relationship with John. He would soothe John’s anger with calming tunes. Sometimes ones that had been written; sometimes pieces that he made up as he went along.

 

He did the same when John’s nightmares had gotten the best of him over several nights.

 

He knew _exactly_ which tunes soothed and which irritated. Though he had yet to deduce a quantifiable explanation as to why one would calm and one would aggravate.

 

For a lack of anything else to help, Sherlock started to hum.

 

He watched as the tension leaked out of John’s body. Leaving the man as limp as he had been previously.

 

Sherlock smiled as he continued to soothe John’s slumber.

 

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It was nearly midday by Sherlock’s guess, before John started to rouse naturally. Sherlock didn’t try to stop it this time, as John was much more rested than he was before.

 

However this time, John was not as calm nor as sociable as he had been when he had been drunk.

 

He pushed himself away from Sherlock and moved so that he was sitting against a wall, where he could watch both Sherlock and the door.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John’s hand snapped up; clearly indicating silence.

 

John wasn’t even really looking at him. Just watching him out the corner of his eye.

 

Sherlock decided that he could give John the time. It wasn’t as if they were going anywhere. And it wasn’t all that different to the number of times Sherlock hadn’t spoken to John in days. Though those days had only really occurred at the beginning of their friendship.

 

They just sat there for two hours, by Sherlock’s timing, something he was pretty sure he had gotten down over the past few days.

 

The door opened and the man who had watched stepped in.

 

            “Ben, what are you thinking?” John stood up quickly, “No, scratch that. _Were_ you thinking last night when you shoved me in here?”

            “You always said that you wished you had one more chance to talk to him.” Ben countered, “Here’s your chance.”

            “ _That_ isn’t Sherlock.” John snarled, “Sherlock would never have done that to me. Not for so long.”

            “Maybe he has a reason, TC.” Ben shrugged, “You’ll never know, unless you ask. He came looking for you. Surely that counts for something?”

            “Too little. Too late.” John snapped, “Let me out of here, Ben.”

            “If you don’t talk to him we’ll send you to Psych-Out for Couple’s Counselling!”

            “You were going to do that anyway!” John fired back.

            “True. But if you don’t co-operate we’ll get him to replace the stress toys with therapeutic stress relievers.”

            “He swore he’d never use teddy bears again.” John snarled in return.

            “I’m sure he’d make an exception for you.” Ben’s voice was firm, but his eyes sparked with amusement, “TC, all of us have people we’d like to talk to again. Ones we will never see again. Not this life, anyway. You have that chance. Don’t waste it with bitterness and anger. Please.”

            “He hurt me, Ben.” John whispered, barely aware of Sherlock’s presence in the room.

            “I know.” Ben smiled sadly, “I know. And I helped hold you together with sticking tape and string.”

            “Surgical sutures and plasters, thank you.” John retorted quickly.

            “Look,” Ben grinned, “Just talk. If he doesn’t have a good reason or he does it again… Well, Tommy said he and his brother would be _more_ than willing to help you out. Said they owed you one.”

            “I just did what anyone would have done.”

            “But no-one else did.” Ben tilted his head on one side, “Here’s your lunch. Talk. To. Him.”

 

With that Ben turned and left. A pair of paper plates with Cornish pasties on them sat next to the door.

 

John moved and picked one up, before returning to his place leaning against the wall.

 

Part of Sherlock’s heart tightened at the simple fact that his John didn’t bother even pushing the other plate towards him. His John had always nagged him about eating. For him not to bother…

 

It unsettled Sherlock.


	12. Chapter 12

            “Why?” John asked, picking at his pasty.

 

Sherlock noted that John wasn’t looking at him at all. Eyes fixed firmly on the pastry as he brushed loose flakes free.

 

            “Moriarty had snipers… Men set to…”

            “I know.” John interrupted, “I saw them. I caught them.”

            “I didn’t know.” Sherlock shrugged.

            “You didn’t listen.” John fired back, “I would have told you. If you had let me.”

            “I didn’t believe I had the time.” Sherlock replied, “I knew Moriarty would have picked the best men in the field. I couldn’t risk you.”

            “Why?”

            “You’re… You.” Sherlock couldn’t find the words to explain.

            “Why leave for three years?”

            “One of Moriarty’s people knew I was still alive. I got a message. If I set foot in England again… If I contacted you… They’d kill you. I left to make sure that wouldn’t happen. To take down Moriarty’s Web across the world… Something I believe you also have been doing with the help of these men… _Despite_ promising Lestrade that you wouldn’t.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t hide the slight criticism in his voice in the last statement. He didn’t even want to.

 

            “I promised I wouldn’t seek Revenge.” John replied, “That only leads to graves. I didn’t seek Revenge. I sought _Justice_. And I found it. The guys helped. In every way they could. Why come back?”

            “We have, between us, taken down Moriarty’s Web in every country apart from the UK. The only way to stop the organisation completely is to take down what remains. I crept into the country unnoticed. Then I looked for you.”

            “Why?”

            “Everyone tries to change me. To make me something different. You… You just… You were different. You’re the only person in my life who has accepted who and what I am. Not even Mycroft does that. Not even Mother.   Yes, you yell. And nag. And ask me to do things… But you don’t ask me to change who I am. You don’t expect me to want the same things as you. You simply expect me to be considerate. And even when I am not, you take it in your stride. You rant. You rave. But you accept it. You accept me. As I am. All you tried to do was make me less bit not good.

 

            “You are my first and only friend. The only person who ever surprised me. The only person who didn’t think I was a freak straight away. The only person who let me be me. I missed that. I missed you… A lot.”

 

John didn’t say anything. Merely turned his gaze back to his pasty.

 

            “I went to Mycroft.” Sherlock confessed, “But he said he had not tracked you. And never told me. I trusted him with only one thing in my absence… Your safety… I needed to be sure that you were… Were alright. I thought you were a prisoner here.”

            “Not tracked me?” John snorted, “He had men following me for a while. They were interfering with my work. This place… This Unit is secret. I couldn’t have them getting in the way. I deliberately lost them. He’s still looking. Passively, admittedly. But he still has people watching CCTV for me.”

            “How?” Sherlock blinked in shock.

            “Did I lose them?” John smirked, “Let’s just say there’re parts of London where I can go and no one can follow, unless they’re a Tommy… How do I know about your brother? I have friends. Friends who are very, _very_ good at slipping into places, at finding things out. Your brother is good… _Very_ good at what he does. But he’s spread so thin, that things can and _do_ slip past him. He’s not omnipotent. No matter _what_ he might think. I even managed to attend my sister’s funeral… He came close to catching me though.”

            “Tommy?” Sherlock frowned, “The name of this unit I presume.”

            “The unofficial name.” John nodded, “I can’t even remember what our official title is. We’re just the Tommies. Always will be.”

            “Military unit.” Sherlock acknowledged, “You’re high up the ranking. Chief Medical Officer.”

            “Correct.” John nodded, “Leo runs the joint. Second in command is Unicorn. Then it’s kinda a mess. Stone and Brit are three and four, depending on how we feel about it. And sometimes how they feel about it… And the day of the week. I’m technically number five. But I can overrule them if needed. Ben’s a floater. Liaison. _Technically_ he’s six. But most of us ignore that. He’s our direct line to the Cousins.”

            “Cousins?” Sherlock pressed, “Overseas. Another unit. Not British.”

            “American.” John confirmed, “Formed to fight the same enemy as us. We often work alongside each other… Why did you think I was a prisoner?”

            “In my travels, I came across a group of people taking out Moriarty’s Web. I believed they were removing the weak links. Those that were going to reveal the secret. I believed they were part of Moriarty’s Organisation. They mentioned TC.”

            “Tommies.” John interrupted.

            “Yes. I believe so.” Sherlock nodded, “However I believed that TC was Moriarty’s replacement. My assumption was that it was short for The Colonel.”

            “Moran?” John laughed, “You thought I was _Moran_?”

            “It was a logical conclusion given the evidence I had available at the time.” Sherlock defended himself, “And I knew he had been Moriarty’s second in command. He is also known to myself as a dangerous and ruthless man.”

            “Moran’s no threat. Not anymore.” John dismissed the comments.

            “When I returned and Mycroft did not know your location, I enquired with Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. Mrs Hudson had the proof that you were most likely still alive.”

            “The cards and presents.” John nodded, “How did you explain that?”

            “Leverage. A method of keeping you under control. I went to Lestrade and he gave me the address of Ben’s shop. You really restrained someone using products from a sex shop?”

            “They have restraints.” John shrugged, “And it worked.”

            “Ben wasn’t at the shop.” Sherlock was quickly summarising everything for John, “And the counter staff claimed he didn’t know you. But I knew he was lying.”

            “Quatermain, yeah, he would of.” John agreed, “Standard procedure. Deny, deny, deny. _Particularly_ when civilian names are used.”

            “He contacted someone here. I traced the connection. The conversation led me to believe that you were a prisoner and had been for three years. They also implied that TC was a sadist, mentioned victims.”

            “That’s what they call my patients.” John snorted, “They’re almost as bad as you. I have to be pretty tough to make sure they don’t hurt themselves worse when they’re meant to be healing… But you traced the call? Endeavour’s not going to be happy.”

            “Endeavour?” Sherlock pressed gently.

            “If messages come in or out of this place, Endeavour’s the guy that makes sure they’re secure. E-mail, twitter, text, phone, letter. No matter what. He’s in charge of making sure that it can’t be traced or received by anyone else. You managed both. He’s going to be impossible for at least a week. I’ll need the sedatives again. The guy does _not_ know how to balance work and sleep. I’d say he’s worse than you, but I’d be lying.”

            “Why all the nicknames?” Sherlock asked, “I presume that TC stands for The Captain.”

            “No.” John shook his head, leaning against the wall, “Its short for Three Continents. Picked it up by accident. And none of us use our real names. Not in this unit. Not among our Cousins either. Too risky.”

            “Risky?” Sherlock frowned.

 

He didn’t like the idea of there being a second threat out there. One that he knew nothing about.

 

            “This Unit was set up to fight a particular enemy.” John explained, “We get called in to deal with other threats. But our priority always has been our main enemy. Same with the Cousins. Real names puts families at risk. We don’t do that. So we all have nicknames.”

            “Ben.” Sherlock challenged.

            “Big Ben.” John replied calmly, “Trust me, you try to find his real name using that as your start point and you’ll hit a brick wall. I just shorten it, because that’s what’s I’ve always done. Same with Brit. All of us call her that. It’s easier.”

            “No relation to her real name?”

            “Not at all. Her full code-name is Britannia. Because she’s the best damn sailor we’ve got. Rule Britannia, Britannia rule the waves.”

 

John smiled at that last comment. Which only made Sherlock frown, he didn’t recognise the words, but it was clearly a quote from somewhere.

 

            “So you came here looking for me.” John nodded.

            “Yes.” Sherlock agreed, “I was caught. Put in a cell.”

            “Surprised they didn’t put you in Ninja One. Top security cell.” John frowned.

            “They did at first.” Sherlock shrugged, “Then Radar activated the gas system… They said something about flushing the system and a Yellow Submarine.”

            “I’ll talk to Radar.” John muttered, “He knows your file. Or at least he should do. He usually would have by now. Our system _usually_ has no issues. But I prefer a doctor to be available just in case of issues. And they should have got you checked out… The Yellow Submarine incident was _not_ pretty. Not dangerous. Not deadly. But not pretty. And if they took photos I am burning them.”

 

It made Sherlock’s heart feel a little lighter as John murmured. He could hear the indignation on his behalf in John’s tone. John may not be all that happy with him. But he also did not want anyone harming him. John did not hate him.

 

Not completely.

 

            “So you don’t have any idea who is moving the pieces on Moriarty’s side of the board?” John asked.

            “No.” Sherlock shook his head, “I had been concentrating my investigations on TC. I never thought…”

            “No. You wouldn’t have.” John allowed, “Not even Mycroft has figured it out. And _he_ has the clearance to get at our files. I checked.”

            “If he read your file then he would know. And he read your file. He has always been thorough.”

            “He’s also a busy man.” John countered, “No doubt he assigned some underling to read my file and summarize it. We all have false files. Virtually impossible to tell apart from real ones. But if you have high enough clearance you know key phrases that alert the reader to the fact that it _is_ a false file. So they know to go looking for the real one. Now, Mycroft has clearance. But I doubt the underling does. And he probably managed to eliminate the key phrases, so Mycroft never realized.”

            “An unfortunate oversight on my brother’s part.” Sherlock conceded, “No doubt this unit is usually beneath my brother’s notice. Else he would have known of your involvement earlier.”

            “We generally operate outside of the country.” John agreed, “And on those few occasions when we operate in the UK, it’s only for a short period of time. Our main enemy focuses mainly on America with only occasional plots directed at ourselves. Though we try to deny them every inch of ground and success. He probably only really thinks about us when he’s got to sort out the chaos we leave behind. And even then he probably delegates. We’re pretty much autonomous. Do you have _any_ information or details about the person moving the pieces in Moriarty’s place?”

            “Some.” Sherlock cocked his head to one side, “But nothing that would allow me to make any conclusions I would place any confidence in. And I have been over every clue since I found out about you being TC. I require more data.”

            “Then we’ll get it.” John had finished his pasty, having taken small bites throughout the conversation.

 

He rose to his feet and moved so that he was standing in front of the door. Sherlock could just see John’s reflection in the door, so he was able to watch John’s hands. They started with the thumbs tucked under, the palms facing downwards, fingers together and both next to each other. He quickly and rather fiercely lifted them in an arc, separating as he did so, before finishing with both hands with the palms up and forming the common hand sign for phone. That coupled with the scowl on John’s face got the door opened in less than a minute.

 

            “Useful.” Sherlock acknowledged as he followed John out into the corridor.

            “They knew we had been talking.” John pointed out, “Else they wouldn’t have bothered. Tare, War Room please. Brass as well.”

            “Already arranged, TC.” Tare grinned, “A-Dale reckoned you’d want to solve the problem as soon as possible. And now we’ve got a… What are we going to call him? He’s not an Ace. And I’d rather not call him an Advantage.”

            “He’s a Knight.” John was firm, “Slightly unpredictable on the board.”

            “I think our Knights would object.” Tare pointed out.

            “Well, he’s not a Pawn.” John countered, “Nor a Rook. If you won’t let him be a Knight, he’s a Bishop.”

            “I’ll take that.” Garath agreed, “Come on. They’ve been waiting for you. For several hours. You always _were_ stubborn TC.”

            “Kept me alive.” John almost absently reminded, “Plus I have to be. Else you’d all run roughshod over me.”

 

John stopped in the small antechamber and retrieved his weapons from their position piled on a chair. The actions were done so quickly that Sherlock, distracted as he was by the way the situation had changed did not fully log what weapons John had.

 

John marched through the corridors, clearly still irritated, but also determined to finish what had started. Sherlock knew the play in the muscles as John moved, John was not going to stop until what he had set out to complete was done.


	13. Chapter 13

John entered a room labelled as the Drawing Room. Sherlock followed, taking in the long, highly polished wooden table. No one was sitting down at it, rather they were gathered around in small groups, drinking tea.

 

Every head turned to face John and Sherlock as they entered. Sherlock didn’t fail to notice that the two guards didn’t enter.

 

            “TC.” Leo nodded, “You’ve made up?”

            “Call it a truce.” John shrugged, “I owe you a Yellow Fever Vaccination for that trick.”

 

Sherlock smothered a smirk as he watched every single person in the room flinch and one hand fly to their upper arm. It seemed that John’s threat was quite common. It also allowed him to confirm his deductions about left and right handedness.

 

            “Where’s he sitting?” John thumbed over his shoulder at Sherlock.

            “Where do you want him to sit?” Leo replied calmly.

 

John paused for a long moment, before shrugging.

 

            “Not near me.” John replied, “I’m still likely to hit him.”

            “Again?” A-Dale piped up, laughter in his voice.

            “Do you _want_ your next injection to be done with a blunt needle?” John asked rhetorically, “I’m sure I could find one.”

            “I’ll be good.” A-Dale backed off.

            “Between Alan A-Dale and Stone.” Leo decided, “Places everyone, places.”

 

There weren’t any arguments or discussions about where everyone was to sit. They settled into their seats, some sliding over the table to take seats on the opposite side to where they started. But not one person put their tea down, nor spilt a drop.

 

Sherlock was shown his seat, when Alan kicked the chair out and nodded at him.

 

He looked around the table. Leo sat at the head, while John sat at the foot.   Radar was on Leo’s left, laptop and notebook both at the ready. Brit looked like a tiny child on Leo’s right.

On John’s left was Ben and another man sat at his right. At some point John had been given a cup of tea and a biscuit.

 

            “Okay,” Leo clapped his hands, after placing his teacup down on the table, “Priority one, we finish this game of chess.”

            “Agreed.” The man on John’s right nodded, “We’ve reduced the board to just the UK. Capturing any knighted pawns overseas and any piece that tried to join the game. They’re down to a few pieces. Not undangerous. But easier.”

            “Big Ben,” Leo looked across the table, “Can our Cousins cope with the Snakes for a little while on their own?”

            “After the last mission?” Ben smiled, “Absolutely. They’ve slid under a couple of rocks for a while.”

            “Good.” Leo nodded, “Inform them of our situation. Reassure Hawk that we do _not_ need nor want backup at this time.”

            “Of course,” Ben agreed, “May I also arrange for the delivery of a bottle of scotch? Hawk’s a little stressed at the moment. The Detective’s reappearance isn’t helping. You know how the Joes feel about TC.”

            “Yes.” Leo sighed, “I know. Make it a good bottle. Now, back to our first priority. I want this chessboard cleared.”

            “To do that,” Brit spoke up, “We need to identify the Chessmaster. What have we got there?”

            “Well, he’s no help.” John pointed at Sherlock, “He’s told me that. He thought TC was the Chessmaster.”

 

That caused a huge round of laughter. The man next to John put his head down on the table and pounded it as he laughed.

 

            “No,” Radar managed to speak around the hand he had over his mouth, “Just our Queen.”

 

Sherlock frowned at the statement, however it seemed to produce even more laughter from the rest of the group.

 

            “Alright.” John waved his hand as if gently smacking the air, “He doesn’t know and we don’t know. Unless you’ve turned up anything useful recently, Alan?”

            “Nothing.” Alan sighed, “Endeavour?”

            “Sorry,” One of the other men shook his head, “They produce very little chatter. All I _can_ say is that London is their centre. Not entirely sure which part, but I’d say not the West End. Possibly more to the edges of the City.”

            “Most likely close to the Financial District.” Alan agreed, “Near the politicians as well.”

            “Well, if we can’t work out who they are,” Brit shrugged, “May be we can get them to come to us?”

            “An excellent idea, Britannia,” Stone agreed, “The only issue is with how we could persuade them.”

            “We could just give them a target.” The man on John’s right suggested.

            “You cannot be serious, Unicorn.” John stared.

            “We want to trap them. We need some tasty cheese.” Alan put in.

            “You mean me.” Sherlock put in.

            “It’s you they want.” Leo nodded.

            “I cannot believe we are having this conversation.” John looked to the heavens, “And what if they kill him?”

            “Then we get them for murder.” Alan dismissed the objection.

            “You can’t be certain that they’ll go after him.” John added.

            “John, I destroyed Moriarty. If I am known to be alive, they will have to target me. Both for revenge and to prove they are Moriarty’s successor and equal. Or their reputation will be worthless. Moriarty swore to destroy me.” Sherlock explained, almost patiently.

            “No.” John shook his head, “It’s not as clear cut as that. He swore to burn the _heart_ out of you.”

            “The Tin-man doesn’t have one.” Brit snorted.

            “That’s where you’re wrong.” John shook his head, “He has me.”

            “No.” The word leapt from several mouths.

            “No way.” Alan spoke firmly.

            “We rather object to the idea of making you a target, old boy.” Stone added.

            “I can’t let you do that, John.” Sherlock put in.

            “For once we’re in agreement.” Alan nodded at Sherlock, “That isn’t necessary. They’ll target the Detective.”

            “You can’t be certain.” John pointed out, “And they may just decide to do a random drive-by. At least with _me_ they’ll want to drag it out.”

            “A drive-by isn’t their style.” Sherlock argued.

            “No. It wasn’t _Moriarty’s_ style. We know next to _nothing_ about this new guy. And Moran? He would have sniped you from a distance and considered it fair.”

            “You can’t know that John.” Sherlock countered.

            “Yes. I _can_! I was _there_! I looked him in the eyes. Tore his world out from underneath him. Laughed in his face. And broke him. I know more about what sort of man he is than you ever did. Queens know Queens. Moran’s biggest mistake was assuming that I am a Queened Pawn, and weaker because of it.”

            “Chess again.” Someone muttered.

            “ _I’m_ the reason Moran’s hiding in solitary and has been all this time.”

            “There are no records of any communication between yourselves.” Sherlock protested.

            “There wouldn’t be. I never actually went to see him. I sent a friend. Through unofficial channels. With a note. The note read: “I’m watching. This is your only warning.”. My friend stuck it to Moran’s forehead. While he was sleeping. In his locked cell.”

            “He must have powerful connections.” Sherlock blinked.

            “No.” John smirked, “Just is ridiculously skilled. I called in a favour. And no, Sherlock, I’m not giving you any more details. They wouldn’t like it. I rather doubt they’d be too impressed with you right now.”

            “They are the most secretive of our Cousins.” Ben smiled.

            “Who?” Sherlock frowned.

            “Not telling.” John shrugged, “But they’re good friends. And we’re close with the Cousins. Closer than our Governments think we should be. Not that they’ve ever actually _said_ that…”

            “Back to the subject.” Leo sighed, “Anyone got any ideas about how we should do this? I’m taking suggestions.”

            “Got an idea.” John cocked his head to one side, “Not sure how you’ll like it.”

            “Go ahead.” Brit waved lazily, “We’ll probably end up arguing about it _anyway_.”

            “Two baits. Two traps.” John held up a finger on each hand, “Sherlock goes back to London. Lays low. But not too low. Anarchy, could you and yours spread word that he’s been seen. Nothing direct. You know, a friend of a friend of a friend’s cousin thought they saw him.”

            “Easy.” A girl nodded.

 

Sherlock assessed her. She was younger by a good margin than the rest of the room. Privately educated. All girl’s school. Not a soldier by training. But clearly accepted by the group. Confident. Secure. A private smirk on her face.

 

            “Spread it far. Spread it fast.” John elaborated, “Rumour will take it from there. Sherlock just goes back to London. We keep an eye on him. I wager a _week_ before they make a move. And it’ll be the Chess-Master.”

            “I’m up for that.” Alan grinned, “I’ve got a guy inside. He’ll keep an eye on the police for us. We’ll know the _moment_ they figure out what’s going on. We’re more tuned to outside chatter.”

            “Agreed.” Endeavour nodded, “What about the second trap?”

            “Doctor Jecks,” John carried on, “She went on Maternity Leave last week. They’ve been asking me to stand in. Off the books as usual. I go _on_ the books. Stay in the Woods’ bed and breakfast. If anyone’s looking for me… _Really_ looking for me, they’ll find me. You keep an eye on me. If they try to take me, take them.”

            “Simple.” Leo nodded.

            “Elegant.” Unicorn agreed.

            “I like it.” Alan put in.

 

Other general comments of consent went around the table.

 

            “Okay,” Leo clapped his hands, “Basic plan agreed then. On to the details.”

            “Does he really need to be here for that?” Endeavour thumbed at Sherlock.

            “TC?” Leo looked at the doctor.

            “I’m not the one in charge here.” John pointed out, “Your call.”

            “One day I’ll get you to take the blasted promotion, TC.” Leo pointed accusingly, “And the one after that and the one after that. Until you reach the place where you were always _meant_ to be.”

            “I’m happy as I am.” John countered.

            “Oh let him stay,” Unicorn sighed, “And Leo, you’re never going to get him to take the bleeding promotion. He hasn’t taken one since he joined us. He’s not gonna start now. You can’t off-load the paperwork _that_ way. Besides, everyone knows Radar runs this unit anyway. He’s just using you as a front.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the demure man. Who, for just a fraction of a second, had such a look of shock and horror on his face as his eyes scanned the table. Then it was gone again, as he smiled good-naturedly at the joke.

 

            “Back to business then.” Leo returned to the main topic, “What do we need for this plan to actually _work_?”

 

As was clearly the custom among the Tommies the plan was made with copious quantities of tea and biscuits. Sherlock spent most of the time simply watching the interactions and deducing the lives of each member present at the table from their appearances and little foibles, while his tea grew cold.

 

The one matter he could _not_ quite get his head around was the arrangement of people at the table. From his experiences with Mycroft and both the political and business sectors whoever sat at the Head of the table was the highest ranking person in the room. While being seated at the foot indicated being on the bottom rung.

 

However it was _very_ clear that John’s words carried weight and he was not disrespected at all.

 

It was all slightly confusing to the Detective.


	14. Chapter 14

It didn’t really surprise Lestrade when he started to hear rumours about Sherlock’s return. They weren’t much. Merely whispers, passed between criminals. Anderson and Donovan dismissed them immediately, but Lestrade bit his tongue.

 

If Sherlock wanted his return to be known, then it would be known. Not merely rumour and gossip.

 

And all of the rumours were lacking one vitally important detail.

 

John wasn’t mentioned.

 

Lestrade had gotten to know Sherlock over many years. And while he wouldn’t say he knew the Consulting Detective completely, he knew about the single-minded focus the man often had. Sherlock had gone looking for John and so until he _found_ John he wouldn’t announce his return publicly.

 

Far be it from Lestrade to ruin the man’s plan… At least until he knew what the actual plan _was_. Or even if the infuriatingly clever man actually _had_ one.

 

However when a pink phone arrived in a cardboard box through the post Lestrade’s heart skipped a beat.

 

He knew Moriarty was dead. _Knew_ it. He’d witnessed the blasted autopsy and gone with the body all the way to the crematorium. Even witnessed the burning and then scattering of the ashes.

 

So it couldn’t, simply _couldn’t_ , be Moriarty behind the appearance of the simple pink phone.

 

But the memories it brought back. The fear. The bombs. The pips. The voices. The sheer _lack_ of empathy from Sherlock. And the pure _joy_ the man had found in the puzzles.

 

It still sent shivers down Lestrade’s spine, even years later.

 

It wasn’t the same model. Technology had developed since then, but it looked similar enough.

 

            “Anderson! Donovan!” Lestrade yelled, moving quickly into the main bullpen from his office.

            “What?” Donovan came over quickly.

 

Lestrade tilted the box so that she could see. Both Sally and Anderson took in a deep breath as they saw the phone and immediately made the connection.

 

            “Not again.” Sally breathed, “Not another one. Not another Freak!”

            “It just came?” Anderson pressed.

            “I just opened it.” Lestrade confirmed, “It’s passed through all the usual screening. There’s no bomb in it. But…”

 

And there was the problem. All three of them knew that the threat would only be made aware to them when they turned the phone on. However none of them wished to. Too wary, too cautious.

 

They knew the price that could be the cost for turning the phone on. Just as they knew the cost for _not_ turning the phone on.

 

After several long minutes where the three tried not to catch each other’s eyes, Lestrade grabbed the phone and turned it on.

 

            “No sense delaying it.” He murmured as it loaded up.

 

To be brutally honest, he was surprised that it wasn’t password locked. He was expecting the password to be ‘Rachel’.

 

The phone lay in his hand, deceptively innocent in its appearance. But not one of the detectives were fooled. Tension was in every muscle as they waited.

 

The phone beeped, displaying the fact that it had a text.

 

With a glance to the heavens, Lestrade opened the message.

 

It was some video footage, but clearly meant for a much larger screen. He couldn’t see enough detail, no matter what he did.

 

            “Get a laptop not connected to our systems.” Lestrade instructed, “Just in case.”

 

They all knew what he was trying to protect from. No need to release a virus onto the NSY computer system. It could do untold damage.

 

A laptop was produced and the wi-fi capacity turned off.

 

The phone was connected and the small video brought up on the larger screen.

 

            “Is that…” Donovan tailed off.

            “The Freak’s Pet.” Anderson breathed.

            “John.” Lestrade murmured.

 

And it was John. Older than Lestrade remembered, but also with a strength in him that Lestrade had only seen a few times.

 

He was sitting on a high backed chair, left ankle and right wrist cuffed to the chair leg and armrest respectively.

 

He had clearly been in a fight, bruises visible on his skin as well as what Lestrade easily recognised as a stun-gun burn, when he zoomed in.

 

Slightly nervously at what would happen, Lestrade pressed play.

 

A newspaper appeared in shot. Yesterday’s. So the footage had only been shot the day before.

 

There was at least a _chance_ that John was alive. Lestrade’s heart got lighter. At least it did not appear that John had been a prisoner the last three years. Else they would not have had to harm him to get him into the chair. Nor would he sit so proudly.

 

            “My name is Doctor John Watson.” John spoke slowly, almost as if he were reciting, “The one time blogger of the Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes. He is not dead. Those that hold me know that. If he does not reveal himself and hand himself over to their custody at a time and place to be named later, I will die. Thus completing the promise made by Moriarty to Sherlock. To burn the heart out of him.”

 

The lack of emotion slightly scared the three detectives, John didn’t seem to be affected by the words he spoke.

 

Slowly, John turned his head to one side, revealing dried blood on his cheek and an ear-bud in his ear. The set up was quite familiar to the detectives. John was simply repeating what he was told. Possibly not even really listening or taking in the words.

 

            “This footage is to be broadcast on the national news channels. If it is not, I will not die. But the suffering I will be put through will make me long for death if only as an end to the pain.”

 

John turned his face back to the camera. And much to the three watching shock he smiled a small smile. It was slightly sad, but also hopeful.

 

            “What do we do?” Sally asked, “The Freak is dead. Dead and gone. Even if we broadcast it… John dies.”

            “I don’t know.” Lestrade sighed.

            “We don’t negotiate with terrorists.” Anderson reminded, “And if this group is anything like Moriarty was, we can class them as terrorists.”

            “I knew you didn’t _like_ him, particularly after he gave you that black eye,” Lestrade snapped, “But he doesn’t deserve to be tortured. Or to die.”

            “Look, Greg,” Sally put a hand on his shoulder, “We know you liked him. But he isn’t your friend any more. He left. For three years. You owe him nothing.”

            “I owe him _everything_!” Lestrade retorted, “He was halfway to turning Sherlock into a good man. He left, because I helped drive his best friend to suicide. I cannot blame him for that. And above all, we have a duty to Protect and Serve.”

 

It wasn’t the official motto of the Met. But it was something that Lestrade believed every police officer around the world carried in their heart.

 

            “How?” Anderson snorted, “We cannot give in. We cannot negotiate. And from what I can see… There is no way to trace this message to the source or even identify his location. We can do nothing.”

            “You can’t.” A new voice popped in, “I can. ‘Scuse me while I borrow this and this.”

 

Lestrade didn’t really get much chance to react, as a passing janitor snapped the laptop shut, picked both it and the mobile up, before grabbing his arm and moving the pair of them into Lestrade’s office, shutting and locking the door behind them.


	15. Chapter 15

            “Sorry about that guvenor.” The janitor grinned unrepentantly, “But I’ve been waiting for this. Mind if I watch?”

 

Without waiting for permission the janitor set up the laptop and started to view the footage.

 

            “Let’s see what you’ve gotten yourself into.” The janitor muttered, “Oh, interesting. Come on, talk to me.”

            “Who are you?” Lestrade demanded.

            “John’s friend.” The janitor shrugged, “Sorry, busy now. Come on, talk to me.”

            “He does talk.” Lestrade leaned over, “Look you can’t do this. Leave it to the professionals.”

            “Technically I am one… And no, he’s not talking. Or at least that’s not him. That’s his captors. I’m looking for _his_ words… Ah! There it is.”

            “He doesn’t get a chance to talk himself.” Lestrade countered.

            “Watch his hand… He’s trying to send a message.”

            “How?”

            “Sign language. He’s finger spelling.”

            “You know sign?”

            “I know enough to know when I see it… I can’t translate it.” The janitor almost apologised, “I’m better at lip reading.”

            “I’ll get a BSL translator.”

            “Don’t bother. It’s not BSL”

            “He’s British. It’s BSL.”

            “No. He learnt it for a friend. He’s American. It’s ASL. Plus it’s easier to sign one handed… I’ll call Ben. He knows ASL better than me.”

            “John has a deaf American friend?”

            “No… He has a mute American friend… It’s complicated. Let me call the others.”

 

Lestrade stared as the man grabbed the office phone and quickly dialled, putting it on speaker.

 

            “This is Fingers to Ears.” The janitor(?) spoke, “Fingers to Ears. Come in Ears.”

            “Ears to Fingers.” The reply came back, “Reading you loud and clear.”

            “Check on Right Eyes. Heart is with El Diablo.”

            “And you know this _how_ , Fingers? Not that I’m doubting you or anything.”

            “El Diablo has sent footage to the Pharmacy. I have the Pharmacist.”

            “Gods, these codes are getting worse every day. Is Adipose aware of the situation?”

            “Not that I am aware. Do Left Eyes still have eyes on Appendix? And that sentence sounded weird even for _us_!”

            “I can confirm that. Dammnit! I _hate_ it when he’s right.”

            “There, there, Ears. He’s not always right.”

            “He is when it matters. Can you link me in to the footage?”

            “Linking.” The janitor plugged a small device into the laptop, “Grab Tongue. I _swear_ Heart is signing. But you know me.”

            “We’ve got to send you to the Cousins one day.”

            “I am quite happy where I am. Are you linked?”

            “Linked. Tongue is here. What do you make of it?”

            “Oh, Heart’s definitely talking.” A new voice smirked, “Good on him. Right, we’ve got what we need here. Fingers… Disconnect and disappear. Your part is over.”

            “Order received and understood.” Fingers snapped off a salute, even as he pulled out the small device from the laptop.

            “Good luck, Fleming.”

            “Bring him home safe, sir.” Fingers/Fleming requested, before he was off and out the window.

 

For a long moment, Lestrade stared at the window. He was fairly certain that it wasn’t meant to open that far, for safety reasons. Yet, somehow, Fingers Fleming (as he would now forever be known in Lestrade’s mind) had managed to get it open and get out through it.

 

            “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade!” Tongue snapped, “Are you still there?”

            “Yes. Sorry. Brain was rebooting.” Lestrade turned to his computer, “Who are you? And what’s going on? I think I missed something.”

            “Okay, I’ll take it slower. A mutual acquaintance has pulled a Lazarus. Are you aware of this?”

            “Yes. He came to me over a week ago. Looking for… The Doctor.”

            “Who is now in trouble. I _knew_ this was a bad plan… But it was the best one we had.”

            “Who are you?” Lestrade asked.

            “My name is Ben. We met once.”

            “John’s Ben?”

            “Yes.”

            “I remember. What can I do to help?”

            “The person behind this wants the footage broadcast. Broadcast it.”

            “You cannot be _serious_!”

            “I can and I am, Lestrade.” Ben’s voice was firm, “We know a lot more of what’s going on than you do. This is part of a sting. We set up two targets. They want our acquaintance to make his move. If you don’t make the footage public, he cannot make his move, as he has not officially seen the footage.”

            “That doesn’t make sense.”

            “Yes, it does. If you think about it.”

 

Lestrade stopped and thought. Mad as it was, when he stopped reacting and started thinking it did make sense. Unless _he_ contacted Sherlock, which he wasn’t entirely sure how to do so, Sherlock would not normally know about the threat. It seemed that the group wanted to keep John’s friends out of the picture. Hidden until needed.

 

A surprise. And he knew it would be an effective one. Even if only _half_ of those he had met turned up.

 

            “I’ll release it.” Lestrade agreed, “But I cannot guarantee what the news stations will say about it. Many will not treat him kindly. For all that… Our mutual friend…”

            “Acquaintance. I would not call him a friend.” Ben was quick to correct.

            “For all that he was found innocent, many did not care.” Lestrade continued, “They still do not. And John was marred with the same brush.”

            “Do not fear. We have friends.” Ben laughed, “Friends who can help. And if all else fails, we have lawyers. Libel suits are always good fun.”

 

Lestrade could hear the plots running around Ben’s head.

 

            “How do I contact you?” Lestrade asked, “If I hear anything.”

            “Get a pen and paper,” Ben instructed, “I’ll give you a number to call.”

 

Lestrade quickly jotted down the number under Ben’s instructions.

 

            “That is a one-time only number.” Ben cautioned, “Once used, it can never be used again. Same with the number used on your phone today. Should we need to contact you, we’ll call.”

            “My number’s changed since I gave it to John.” Lestrade pointed out.

            “Detective Inspector,” Ben’s smile was audible, “We have your number. We’ve had it since you got it. John is highly protective of his friends. He did not withdraw his friendship. It takes a lot for him to do that. And as a unit we are highly protective of our friends and family. You have been in the Shadow of our Tree for these past three years.”

 

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it again.

 

            “What do you mean?” He managed to ask after a long pause.

            “It means Detective Inspector that we have made sure that in an emergency we can contact you.” Ben shrugged, “Don’t worry about it. We have simply had a system available to offer help to you, should you require it. Fortunately you have not.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you are a friend of my friend.” Ben replied calmly, “Release the video. I will contact you later.”

 

The phone hung up. Lestrade looked at it, still trying to get his mind around the information he had just had dumped on him.

 

Slowly he got up and walked to the door, opening it to face Anderson, Donovan and a few other police officers.

 

            “Who was that?” Anderson demanded.

            “Where is he?” Donovan looked around the empty office.

            “I don’t know.” Lestrade shook his head, “We release the footage.”

            “Why?” Donovan snapped, “Its showing weakness.”

            “Because I said so.” Lestrade snapped, “Sort it. Now.”

 

As Donovan dashed off to complete his order, Lestrade also sent Anderson to run analysis on the footage. Any information was better than none.

 

Lestrade just returned to his office, starting to look for clues as to who could have the _power_ to do what was happening.

 

            “John, I hope you know what you’re doing.” Lestrade addressed the ceiling.


	16. Chapter 16

            “Alright people!” Ben walked into the Mess Hall, the fastest way of spreading information in the Tommies, “Plan E is a go!”

            “What?” Someone sounded upset, “I wanted Plan B!”

            “Blame the bad guys.” Ben retorted, “They’re the ones that took TC. We need the Wild Hunt to go check up on TC’s watchdogs. The Fellowship should have reported this. They checked in on schedule seven hours ago.”

            “Oh!” Someone moaned, “Can’t you send the Knights of the Round Table? Or the Merry Men? Or even the Hawkhurst Gang?”

            “Busy,” Ben started to list off, “With the Detective. Standing by to keep Poppins distracted, should Anarchy have issues. Go!”

 

A few people started to move. Ben knew that he didn’t have to worry about telling anyone else. Gossip flew faster than light amongst the Tommies. At least those things that were allowed to be gossiped about.

 

            “What have you got?” Brit asked.

            “I’m not sure.” Ben looked at his notebook, “TC was definitely signing at us. But I don’t know what he means… As much as I hate to say it, we need to recall the Merry Men and the Detective. Because I think this is a message for him.”

 

Brit pulled the notebook so that it was down at her eye-level and glanced over the notations.

 

            “You’re sure he said that?” Brit frowned.

            “He was signing.” Ben replied, “I know sign better than most round here. That’s what he said.”

            “Yes, but it makes no sense.” Brit was confused, “IA. TW. LC. VC.”

            “I know.” Ben sighed, “He just kept repeating those four pairs of letters.”

            “He had to keep the message short.” Brit conceded, “He couldn’t know how long the recording would be.”

            “I just wish it had been for us.” Ben muttered, “Rather than _Him_.”

            “And what could he have told us in eight letters?” Brit countered, “Look, I like Him just as much as you do. But you have to concede He does have an incredible mind.”

            “I concede it,” Ben retorted, “Even if I don’t like it. Could you recall the Merry Men?”

            “I’ll do so.” Brit agreed, “You sit down, and have some tea. TC isn’t going to die on us. We’re not high and dry yet. I’ll go wave a few flags in the Merry Men’s direction. They should be back before the next square meal.”

 

And with that, Brit dashed off to send the message. Ben moved over to the kettle and started to go about the process of making himself a cup of tea.

 

            “Did TC look okay?” One of the men asked him.

            “This is TC we’re talking about here.” Someone else laughed, “I bet he gave them hell.”

            “No.” Someone else shook their head, “He had to play the mild mannered doctor. He had to be Doctor Watson, remember? And not even him. He had to be _John_. He couldn’t fight back.”

            “Didn’t stop him,” Ben muttered, over his cup of lemon tea, “I know bruised knuckles when I see them. They got a good few blows in. But I’d wager they’re smarting as well.”

            “Good.” Leo remarked, as he entered, “Then we find out where he is. We find out who is holding him. We get him back. We take them down. Any objections?”

            “Yes,” The cry came from Ramses, “I have a bust wrist and I’m not allowed to help.”

 

The reaction to the complaint was a roar of laughter and a burst of good natured teasing. Ben leant back in the chair he had claimed, knowing that the Pride of Tommies would have many more reasons to laugh in the future.

 

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It was a hurting Fellowship that returned in the company of the Wild Hunt. Hurting physically and mentally. The knowledge that they had not been able to protect TC was an open sore, which would not heal until TC was returned to their company Leo knew.

 

            “What happened?” Leo asked carefully.

 

The Fellowship were a fierce band. Not unlike their namesakes, even being made up of the correct number, nine.

 

            “They came at dawn.” The leader, Reid, sighed, “TC was in his bed, with myself and Mattie in the other two rooms. They hadn’t planned a proper assault. Our mistake was assuming that they would scout the area properly, that we would have some warning, by spotting their informants… The strangers in the area. They chose a smash-and-grab. By the time we knew what was happening, it was already too late.

 

            “TC had suggested that we _let_ him be taken. Just in a general discussion. Said we could use a hidden GPS to track him. It was in his watch. But he’d taken it off. We thought we were safe.

 

            “There were twenty of them. At least. They didn’t have a plan as far as we could tell. They just smashed their way into the house and attacked anything that moved. We reacted as quickly as we could. But that’s all we were doing… _Reacting_.

 

            “We would have fought to the last, but TC told us to stand down. He would not risk our lives for the mission.”

            “We didn’t need you to.” Leo shrugged, “This might get us further. Did they know who you were?”

            “From what they said, they thought we were sent by Poppins.” Reid conceded, “They know nothing of the Tommies. Else they would have killed us. Even gave us a message for Mister Poppins himself.”

            “Anything interesting?” Leo asked absently, not really interested in the message.

            “Not really.” Reid replied, “A bit boring. They surprised us. They had guns. We weren’t near our guns.”

 

Any other military leader, in modern times, would have reprimanded them slightly, but the small groups Leo had under his command were often more comfortable using weapons usually considered archaic. They would carry guns and use them to a more accurate degree than any other unit Leo had met (possibly bar their Cousins), but the small roving teams preferred different non-regulation weapons. The Fellowship were more likely to use daggers and swords and arrows and frying pans than guns. It was part of what made them a good group to go undercover, as they could leave the swords and arrows behind and still fight fiercely.

 

It was a point of pride for Leo that all of his fast response teams could fight without conventional weapons and _still_ win more fights than they lost, by a good margin.

 

It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t neat. They weren’t the best fighters around. They didn’t follow any rules or abided by fairness. If a dirty move could end the fight, then they would use it.

 

But they got the job done. And that was all Leo ever expected of his people. That they got the job done.

 

            “Tell me you at least got one of them.” Leo pressed.

            “Two dead.” Reid shrugged, “Of that I’m certain. But once we surrendered they knocked us out. Drugs. Did quite a good job of cleaning up. Took the bodies with them. I reckon if we hadn’t come round when we did and gotten out of there we’d be in the local lock-up. Framed for robbery, of all things. Possibly kidnapping.”

            “We couldn’t call for help.” Faramir sighed, “Radio and mobile interference. But by our watches we were out for about six hours. More than enough time to get TC pretty much anywhere. Have they made their demands?”

            “Not completely.” Leo replied, “But they have made the fact that they have TC known. Though they’ve tried to pass it off as having had him at least a day. Sneaky, but not too smart. TC was communicating in some sort of code. We’ve recalled the Detective to figure it out.”

            “Who did they contact?” Reid asked.

            “New Scotland Yard. Lestrade.” Leo answered.

            “Permission to be involved when we get our TC back?” Reid rose to attention.

            “Permission granted.” Leo smirked.

 

He had known the question would be coming. And he would not deny his people a chance at retribution.

 

The problem with asking people to succeed is that they took it personally when someone prevented them from doing so.

 

 _Very_ personally.

 

Leo supposed that he should discourage such traits. But to be honest he didn’t really see the point. His people were good at what they did and very rarely let personal issues cloud their judgement. Letting them get angry merely put an edge on the sword that Leo was privileged to wield.

 

            “Go sort your injuries out.” Leo instructed, “Full blood analysis, just in case. And then be ready to move on a moment’s notice. I don’t know how fast this will move.”

            “Understood.” Reid nodded, “Fellowship, let’s move.”

 

Leo watched them leave with slight pride. He asked for the best from his people and he always got it. He only ever recruited the best.

 

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With traffic, it took a little over three hours to get Sherlock back from London. But once he was back he was dragged into Leo’s office and given the small notebook, after a showing of the video.

 

            “What do you make of that?” Leo demanded more than asked.

            “You are certain that this is what he said?” Sherlock pressed.

            “Absolutely.” Ben nodded, “I had a few others check as well. We all got the same answer. IA. TW. LC. VC. Always paired. We can make no words from it. It corresponds to no codes we have established. It means something. But we do not know what. We believe it is for you.”

 

Sherlock had to forcibly crush the mad grin that wanted to burst forth on his face. When in a dangerous situation… When in fear of his life… When it came to the pinch… It had been _him_ John had reached out to. It was _him_ that his John sought for aid.

 

            “What do you make of it?” Leo repeated.

            “It’s information and a warning.” Sherlock declared, “He has seen the enemy and knows their name. But there is danger.”

            “Just translate.” Brit snarled, her hands going for her daggers.

            “VC,” Sherlock started at the end of the message, “Vatican Cameos. It’s a warning phrase the two of us use. It usually means to duck or hit the ground. However in this context, I would wager that John is informing me of either a gun or a bomb being aimed at him. Given that he would not usually warn me, if the threat was to him, I would say a bomb.”

            “Rescan the footage.” Leo turned on Endeavour, “Use whatever tricks you have up your sleeves. I want as close to a full rendition of that room as you can manage. And alert the Catherines”

            “Understood, sir.” Endeavour snapped off a salute and left the room.

            “LC,” Sherlock carried on, “Given how John didn’t rise to his feet, nor remove the earpiece, and most significantly moved his head so slowly… It most likely stands for Laser Cage. Most probably how the bomb is to be triggered. If he breaks one of the invisible beams in the room the bomb will detonate.”

            “I’ll go inform the Catherines that we’ll need Siru.” Ben turned to leave the room, “He’d best limber up.”

            “The first two sets are a double confirmation of the same thing.” Sherlock continued, “By repeating it twice, he is no doubt trying to tell me that this is the identity of his captor, as well as Moriarty’s replacement. He is determined to make sure that I learn it.”

            “Who?” Leo growled, “Quit stalling.”

            “General Leo,” Sherlock lost his temper slightly, “Forgive me if I feel slightly more perturbed by this revelation than you will be. It was my direct actions that have led to this situation. While John was successful in disarming Moran and destroying the immediate line of succession, I allowed for the current leader to take command. I did not know that would be the consequences of my actions, but they were mine and mine alone. I told no one of my actions, and I fear that they have allowed this new leader to achieve the position they have reached.

 

            “John has done nothing but look out for me and my interest over the duration of our friendship. Even when I have been particularly difficult or demanding or the task required was especially distasteful or against his natural inclinations. And how have I repaid him?”

            “Poorly.” Alan shrugged, “But at least you’re realizing it.”

            “True. And I can say for certain that this specific enemy will _not_ kill John. Not yet. I know what they want and how they plan to get it. It is an exceptionally clever plan. However one that takes neither John’s true nature nor his true ability into account. This enemy is underestimating John, a grievous error, as no doubt Moran can testify.”

            “World’s biggest mistake.” Alan agreed, “I have only done it once.”

            “I was fortunate enough never to do so.” Leo had slightly relaxed, now that he knew John was not in immediate danger.

            “What about the incident with the…” Alan started.

            “We agreed never to talk about that.” Leo spoke firmly.

            “No, you said we wouldn’t.” Alan had an unrepentant grin on his face, “We never agreed.”

            “So as long as John doesn’t move too much he will be fine?” Leo returned to the main subject.

            “Yes. The plan is, no doubt, to burn the heart out of me. For that I have to see the death. I have to know it is my fault.” Sherlock explained, “They intend for the grief to consume me… But now I know who and what and why, they will not escape me. I have but one friend in this life. If they cause further harm to him, I will willingly kill them. And any that get in my way.”

 

It was the low tone and the fury in Sherlock’s eyes that convinced the Tommies of the sincerity of his words.


	17. Chapter 17

John’s thoughts as he came round from the sedative were first of the Fellowship. He hoped that he had managed to keep them alive.

 

No matter how many people John had seen die, under his care or not, each death hurt him just as much as the first. Apart from one. And that one wasn’t even real.

 

John blinkered back the tears. He would not let them fall. Sherlock had no right to his tears now. He had no right to make him cry. To make him feel the grief he did. To make him feel the guilt he did.

 

The next thing John was aware of was his rising urge to vomit. A common side effect of most sedatives. He quickly swallowed some saliva to counteract the urge.

 

He slowly opened his eyes to look around. To take in his situation.

 

He was in an almost empty room. He could see some electronic equipment spread at irregular intervals. Bound to a wooden chair, in what he thought was approximately the centre, by his right wrist and left ankle.

 

They were simple metal handcuffs, his bonds. Given time and quiet John knew that he could easily pick them. However he was reluctant to move. Surely they had not underestimated him _that_ much?

 

John, as a doctor, had long ago learned patience. He had turned patience into a weapon during his time as a prisoner of Cobra; sharpened it into deadly usage amongst the Tommies; and honed it to such a degree that a Samurai would have been proud to wield it, whilst sharing a flat with Sherlock.

 

It was probably his most valuable weapon. Alongside his ability to be underestimated.

 

Absently he set his senses to trying to figure out where he was. He had his back to a boarded up window. He could feel the sunlight on his skin, but only in irregular patches. There was a slight smell in the air, which John attributed to a city. He could not tell _which_ city, but would be willing to bet on London.

 

He relaxed into the chair, eyes fixed on the door in front of him.

 

He was bait. But the worst kind. A small fluffy animal cowering from a snake, and hiding the fact that it was really a mongoose.

 

It wasn’t too long before the door opened.

 

And in stepped a figure John had been certain he would never see again. But in seeing them, he knew how and why such an event had come about.

 

            “Miss Adler.” John sighed, “I see reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated.”

            “Sherlock never told you?”

            “I believe you know the answer. Sherlock may have been my friend. But he never quiet understood reciprocation. And you fascinated him. I presume he saved you?”

            “Of course. Helped me fake my death. And then faked his own.”

 

John kept quiet.

 

            “Or didn’t he tell you? Poor, little John. Nobody cares for you.”

            “No. And I am nothing special. I’ve known that for years. Nothing important ever happens to me.”

            “True,” Irene smirked, “But now you will allow me to achieve something important.”

 

Quick, precise steps brought her close to John. Nimble fingers positioned an earbud. She was almost straddling his lap as she leaned close to him. Close enough to whisper in his ear.

 

            “I would not move too much. There is a bomb directly under your chair. Once I move away from you a series of invisible laser will be activated. Break one beam and you will set off the bomb.”

 

She moved like silk away from him.

 

            “You command Moriarty’s pieces now, don’t you?” John spoke softly.

            “Very clever, but too late.” She smiled, “With you in my grasp I shall gain everything I desire.”

            “I am valuable to you, so long as Sherlock does not realize that I am in your grasp.” John sighed, “Once he does your whole plan is destroyed.”

            “That is why he will not ever realize.” She replied, “And you are too dangerous to my position to keep alive.”

            “A competitor for his attention.” John agreed.

            “A competitor?” Irene laughed, “Oh you think too highly of yourself, _doctor_. You were never more than a mild distraction for my Detective. My Genius. My Brain.”

            “That’s your plan.” John realized, “For me to die at your hand, for Sherlock to turn to you for aid, and you turn his intellect to your will. He’ll figure it out, you know. And then he’ll turn all that strength against you.”

            “Will he? Blinded by anger. By guilt. He’ll know it was his fault. And he’ll never suspect me. Why would he? I owe him a debt. With him at my side I will rule the world. Take back the lands he has caused me to lose. Take back the Power that was always meant to be mine.”

            “I always knew you were dangerous.” John breathed, “But I never thought you were _this_ dangerous.”

            “Now, doctor, you know how this goes, you repeat what I say, or you die.”

            “I’m going to die anyway.” John raised an eyebrow, “What does it matter whether I die now or later?”

            “Because if you die now,” Irene smiled with evil in her eyes, “I will need a replacement to play your role in my performance. Your former landlady will do very well.”

            “You leave her out of this.” John’s eyes hardened.

            “My, my, you do have some fire, my brave little doctor. Do as I say and none of my people will approach her. Disobey me and she will take your place all the way to her death. Do you understand?”

            “Yes.” John hung his head.

 

The action seemed like he was giving in to defeat, but he knew he had to hide his eyes. They were full of cold anger and determination. While most would not notice it, and had in his past failed to, Irene Adler was smart enough to spot it.

 

            “Good.” Irene smirked, “Don’t worry, my little doctor; I’ll take good care of Sherlock. He’ll want for nothing.”

            “He’s no pet.” John fired back, “Be careful, he’ll bite you.”

            “Oh no, he will never do that. Once you die in front of him, all his anger and rage will come rising to the surface and I’ll be there to twist it to my advantage. Remember, my little doctor, say only what I whisper in your ear and your death will be delayed.”

            “And if I try to escape?” John asked.

            “I told you about the beams,” Irene retorted, “Do not doubt me. They are here, you can see the equipment.”

 

John settled down into the chair, watching as Irene set up the camera.

 

            “Mycroft must be furious with his men for letting you be taken.” She remarked once she was finished, “It might have been kinder if you had let mine kill them.”

            “I would rather that I died a thousand times than one life was given to protect me.” John replied firmly, “Never again.”

 

He sat and followed Irene’s commands as she filmed his plight. He disobeyed slightly in that he turned his head to reveal the earbud and that his left hand never stopped signing. He knew that while Irene would not understand his hand, the Tommies would translate his admittedly short message.

 

He simply had to have faith that they would understand its meaning.


	18. Chapter 18

            “Irene Adler.” Timbl leant forward, his fingers dancing across the keyboards, “The Woman. Dominatrix. Reported dead in Karachi, Pakistan… Looking at everything I’ve managed to dig up?… She’s an evil Lady Heather.”

            “Lady Heather?” Sherlock frowned.

            “Character in a TV series most of us watch.” Timbl replied quickly, “Everything I’ve got says Irene Adler is dead. You’re sure she’s alive?”

            “I was the one who saved her.” Sherlock answered, “I faked her death.”

            “Right.” Timbl stretched his fingers, “How do you want to contact her?”

            “She will contact me.” Sherlock countered, “Bring up my blog and John’s. If she is to contact me it will most likely be through one of those two. She was always fond of text messages. However I have long ago disposed of the mobile she once used to contact me on.”

            “Could she use your new number?” Leo pressed.

            “I have been through a quite a few numbers since then.” Sherlock shook his head, “At present I do not even have one.”

            “So she’ll use these.” Timbl accepted looking at his screens, “Your blog is basically untouched. Reckon Poppins shut down the posts on it, before anyone got the idea to attack you through it. TC’s… Well they weren’t so kind.”

 

Sherlock forced himself to read through the posts. John’s last message to the world, before he dropped off the face of it, was touching in its simplicity. And the immediate posts after it basically tearing it to shreds.

 

            “Did he read any of these?” Sherlock asked.

            “No.” Alan spoke up quickly, “He made his post and left it. It was never about the response he got from everyone else. It was about expressing himself. Opening up. I knew about the responses. And he knew that a few of us checked on it. But he never asked. We never said.”

            “What name should I look out for?” Timbl changed the subject.

            “Any new posts.” Sherlock replied, “She will not be obvious. She needs to play a subtle game here.”

            “I agree, old boy.” Stone nodded, “If she communicates with you too quickly, she knows that you will be suspicious. The Lady must be careful.”

            “Stone,” Ben sighed, “I would not call her a lady.”

            “Out!” Timbl pointed at the door, “I’ll contact you when I get something, until then you’re just hovering. Leave, or I’ll do something horrible to your computers.”

 

Ben pulled Sherlock out the room.

 

            “He means it.” Ben explained, “Come on. A good cup of tea and some food will do you good. TC will hang on in there. He’s tough and he’s smart. He’s been up against worse odds before.”

 

Sherlock didn’t reply to that one. Part of him was proud that his John was so respected by this man, but another part of him was furious that his John was _in_ the situation in the first place.

 

Ben shepherded him into the Mess Hall, sat him down and placed a cup of tea down next to him along with a sandwich.

 

The tea had gotten cold and been replaced three times, before the Tommies accepted that Sherlock was not going to drink it.

 

They weren’t replacing it and the food because they _liked_ him, but because TC had made some dire mutterings about Sherlock not eating enough. And despite TC not being at the top of the command structure no-one was willing to intentionally aggravate him.

 

That led to vaccinations… Or blood drawing, depending on how TC was feeling at the time.

 

In the end they just left Sherlock who seemed to have fallen into a meditative trance. Not something the Tommies were unaccustomed to. They simply shrugged, replaced the tea once more and continued their lives around him.

 

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It wasn’t until noon the next day that Timbl slapped a printout in front of Sherlock.

 

            “It’s the only one that doesn’t make sense.” He pointed at the circled post, “Everything else is either comfort or insults.”

 

Sherlock looked down at the post. It was anonymous, he wasn’t too surprised.

 

            “I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.” Leo read out loud, “And that means _what_?”

            “It’s the first text message she sent me after she faked her death the first time.” Sherlock explained, “Send this reply: ‘Same place, 6pm’.”

            “You want to meet in a restaurant?” Timbl stared.

            “No. We never had dinner.” Sherlock replied, “We’ll meet at the abandoned Battersea Power Station. Which is where she sent the text from.”

            “I don’t want to even know how you know that.” Timbl blinked, even as he sent the message.

            “John was there at the time.” Sherlock shrugged, “I was following him.”

            “Hands up those who find Stalker-Sherlock slightly creepy.” A nearby Tommy commented.

 

Over half the Mess Hall raised their hand.

 

            “Glad we agree.” The Tommy remarked.

            “Blueprints.” Timbl pointed at his tablet screen, where he had the plans for the Power Station.

            “This room.” Sherlock tapped it quickly.

 

Timbl passed the tablet to Leo, who looked at it quickly before passing it to Stone.

 

            “Is there anything we need to know about her?” Leo asked Sherlock.

            “She believes she is smarter than nearly everyone else. She is often correct. However when she is in a position of strength she often believes it is stronger than it actually is. She is manipulative and deceptive. More than willing to use her sexuality as a weapon.” Sherlock supplied quickly.

            “Right. Bring our TC home, Stone.” Leo instructed, “Use who you need and what you need.”

            “Consider it done, old chap.” Stone smiled, “Alan A-Dale, I will require your assistance.”

            “At your disposal.” Alan replied calmly, “I think I can guess at your plan. Which party will you be leading?”

 

Sherlock watched as the two men wandered off, quietly plotting and planning. It seemed that the Tommies had no further use of him. He had found their target, he had drawn it out.

 

But he was _not_ going to be tossed by the wayside. He would rescue _his_ John.

 

            “Detective?” Alan called over his shoulder, “Coming?”

            “What?” Sherlock frowned.

            “I don’t trust you not to run off on your own and messing up our plans.” Alan elaborated, “So I’m going to make sure you don’t.”

 

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Sherlock was waiting seemingly impassively in the long room of the Power Station. His eyes were closed and his breathing steady.

 

He would not fail his John now. Not when he was so close.

 

High heels tapped out a quiet rhythm on the floor as The Woman came into view.

 

            “Sherlock.” She spoke quietly.

            “You have information I want.” Sherlock managed to prevent himself from saying what he was actually thinking.

 

            #You have information I _need_.#

 

            “Your doctor.” The Woman nodded, “He has been taken by the remnants of Moriarty’s Web.”

            “A fact I am already aware of.” Sherlock was blunt, “Unless you have some other dazzlingly obvious statement to make I have a case to solve.”

            “My survival these past few years have depended upon being useful and building favours.” The Woman spoke hurriedly, “You saved my life once. I abhor an unpaid debt. I have gathered information of possible locations your doctor may be being kept.”

            “Tell me.” Sherlock demanded.

            “I can show you. I have a car outside. Did you come alone?”

            “My brother lost John. Why would I trust his people to help me rescue him?” Sherlock remarked, “Where is he?”

            “I cannot be certain. And we have to be careful. If they find out that I’m telling you they could kill both your doctor and me.”

            “Tell me.” Sherlock demanded once again, “Then you can go wherever you want. They’ll never find you.”

            “No.” The Woman shook her head, “I owe you a debt. I will go with you.”

            “No.” Sherlock was firm, “You won’t. I _know_ who has spun Moriarty’s Web since he died. You. You will not kill John. You will tell me where he is.”

            “How did you come to that conclusion?”

            “You underestimated him. And you are trying to manipulate me. That did not end well for you last time. It will not end well this time. Where is John?”

            “Why should I tell you?”

            “Because if you don’t I’ll kill you.” Sherlock drew John’s gun, the Sig-Sauer.

 

He’d stolen the gun from John’s room amongst the Tommies. It hadn’t been too difficult to find, John was wonderfully predictable after all. Room next to the Infirmary. Gun in a heavy book.

 

            “You can’t kill me Sherlock.” The Woman smiled, “I’m the only one who knows where Doctor Watson is.”

            “I’ve out-thought you once. I can do it again.” Sherlock replied, “Tell me or I’ll kill you. You have five minutes.”

            “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.” The Woman shook her head, “You can’t kill me. You can’t kill anyone. You have _never_ killed _anyone_. I know that. You’re not capable.”

            “I’m a high functioning sociopath. You might want to revise that estimate. You have harmed the _only_ thing I care about.”

            “Yet you saved me once. You care about me. And you can’t kill me. If you do, you’ll kill Doctor Watson. It took you _months_ to beat me last time. He doesn’t have months.”

            “No. But TC does have friends.” Alan stepped out of the shadows, “No, don’t move Miss Adler. I’m not like the Detective here. I will kill you if I have to.”

            “Who are you?”

            “A man who owes his life to TC. A man who will kill for him if he has to. A man who will kill to _avenge_ him if that is all I can do. And for the record? The Detective isn’t a sociopath. If he _was_ you’d already be dead. He’s got Asperger’s. High functioning… But still Asperger’s.”

 

There was a long pause while both Irene and Sherlock stared at Alan.

 

            “What?” Alan grinned, “We had an informal assessment done. Psych-Out agreed with TC. Definitely Asperger’s. So talk, Miss Adler. Or die. You have three minutes.”

            “You wouldn’t harm a lady, would you, sir?”

            “If I had to? Yes!” Alan was firm, “And for TC’s sake? Certainly. Add in the fact that you’re no lady, I could kill you easily. And even if I couldn’t…”

 

Alan tailed off. But a red dot appeared on Irene’s chest.

 

            “Tell has no trouble with it.” Alan continued.

 

A second dot appeared, right on Irene’s breastbone.

 

            “And Anarchy certainly doesn’t. Actually she considers you scum, and would be quite happy to do so. TC now.”

            “I don’t know who you’re asking for.” Irene’s voice was shaking a little.

            “Captain John ‘Three Continents’ Watson.” Alan stated coldly, “His location. Now. And don’t try appealing to the snipers. They can’t hear you. Only me.”

            “I do not know where he is.”

            “Nice try. But I’ve known better liars. You know. Cough it up. Or we just shoot you, and figure it out ourselves.”

            “I swear I don’t know.”

            “You know. You’ve been there. Mocked TC to his face, I’m willing to bet. You’re that kind of woman. Talk or die.”

            “There’s no way you have spoken to TC. I gave orders. My men work very well.”

            “Oh, admitting your guilt?” Alan raised an eyebrow, “Wasn’t too hard to figure out.”

            “You rather enjoy the power.” Sherlock spoke up, “What was your plan? Kill my John and convince me that the only way to avenge him would be to take down Moriarty’s organisation from the inside? With you working as the inside woman? And I would be your Moriarty. Providing the plans. Clever. But not nearly clever enough. You overestimated yourself in our last hostile encounter. And this time you underestimated my John.”

            “ _Your_ John?” Irene laughed, “You left him. Such easy pickings for anyone to take. You would think that a man who has had women on three different continents would know more about women and their manipulations. But he’s as naïve as a babe in a pram.”

            “You… You…” Alan stared, before whispering, “You’re as bad as Moran.”

 

Suddenly he burst out laughing. A full, loud, belly-shaking laugh. It was so bad he had to put his hands on his knees in order to keep upright.

 

            “You’re as bad as Moriarty. As bad as Mycroft Holmes. As bad as Lestrade. As bad as the entirety of the Yard. As bad as this guy here. You read a file and think that you know a guy. When you all missed the glaringly _obvious_ clue that was there as to why you don’t mess with TC.”

            “I have never read his file.” Sherlock countered.

            “Really?” Alan looked with surprise at the Detective, “I wouldn’t have thought you would have had the patience to leave a mystery lying around.”

            “I knew the man. What did I need to know of his past? It was of no consequence to me.”

            “Oka-ay!” Alan drawled, “You mean your brother never gave you a file?”

            “He did. I burnt it. As I said, I knew the man. I knew he was dangerous. It seems I failed to learn just how dangerous.”

            “Okay. I’ve revised my estimate of your intelligence. It rose a few points. Hers, on the other hand, is still pitifully low. She completely missed the single glaring clue that told people that John is a scary, scary man.”

            “Which is what?” She sneered.

            “He held a Marksman Badge for almost the _entirety_ of his Army career. _Despite_ being a medic.” Alan sounded proud, “Where is he? One minute left. Tick tock.”

            “You wouldn’t shoot me.” Irene sneered.

 

A loud bang and a scream cut through the air.

 

Irene’s hand snapped to her shoulder, blood flowing from beneath her fingers. She had taken a few steps back and fell to her knees. But the snipers remained fixed on her chest.

 

            “I think I just proved I could and would.” Sherlock snapped, “My John, _now_! Or I’ll shoot you in the stomach and watch you die slowly and painfully.”

            “Kill me and you’ll never find him.”

            “Want to bet?” Alan smirked, picking up for Sherlock, “We’re the Tommies, girl. We can do _anything_! We have been systematically tearing down Moriarty’s organisation. You? You’re just an ant to be squashed to us.”

            “What is he to you?” Irene’s gaze darted between Sherlock and Alan in horror.

            “The best man I have ever known. A man who once told me to follow him. And I have _never_ had that order rescinded. Other orders have gotten in the way. But it was never actually rescinded. I would follow him into the fiery pits of Hell armed with only a snowball… And I wouldn’t even think twice. He’s my Captain. I follow my General, my Colonels, my Majors… I follow them out of loyalty, duty, devotion and friendship. But TC? I follow him out of love.”

            “Aww… Poor soldier. Crushing on the man he can never have. And who wouldn’t know what to do with him.”

            “It’s not like that. TC’s a brother to me. I owe him my life. And you? You pissed off a hell of a lot of people when you targeted TC. I’m not the only one who would follow him. Just count yourself lucky… Most of them aren’t as kind as I am… And I wouldn’t have been as kind as I have been, if it wasn’t for the fact that TC would be disappointed with me. Twenty seconds, girl. Where. Is. TC?”

 

Irene spilled the location in a hurry, her words tripping over themselves.

 

Alan repeated the information into his radio.

 

Then he walked over to Irene and squatted down next to her.

 

            “Thank you.” He patted her cheek gently and slightly condescendingly, “And for the record? TC _let_ you take him. Else he’d have killed all you sent after him. You never stood a chance, little girl. You never stood a chance. Stop trying to play in the big pool with the adults. You get hurt there.”

 

He rose and walked away. Not once looking back.

 

            “Someone send in Doyle and Bodie to take her away.” Alan told the radio

 

Alan walked out the building. Sherlock not far behind him, obviously desperate to find John. Two men were walking in at the same time.

 

            “Alan A-Dale.” The lead one nodded at him.

            “No need to be gentle with her, boys. As long as she lives.” Alan stated in passing.

            “Of course.” The other agreed.

            “We have to hurry.” Sherlock was getting impatient.

            “No.” Alan shook his head, “I informed those who need to know. They will rescue TC. Rushing in won’t help him. Think. Plan. Prepare. Execute. Or you end up with a Fubar situation, when you really want a Snafu one. Or preferably a SSDD one.”

            “What?” Sherlock looked.

            “Ahh… I guess you deleted military acronyms… If you ever bothered to learn any. By the way, really impressed with that shot of yours. Didn’t think you had the guts.”

            “I told you. John is my friend. My only friend. I am quite possessive about some things.”

            “You know,” Alan laughed lightly, “Keep this up, and I might actually start liking you.”


	19. Chapter 19

Lestrade was sitting in his office trying not to worry about John. But it was difficult.

 

He’d tried to contact Sherlock, but every number he knew was no longer recognised or connected him to a random stranger.

 

He hadn’t dared call Ben. If the number only worked once they might not give him a new one if he used it frivolously. And John’s life could depend upon him contacting them at the right moment.

 

His phone rang, knocking him out of his thoughts.

 

            “Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He answered it automatically.

            “There is a car outside.” Ben’s voice was calm, “We have a lead. You and only you can come. Five minutes or the car leaves without you.”

 

Lestrade was moving before Ben hung up. He grabbed his coat and dashed towards the door. He completely ignored both Anderson and Donovan’s questions. And while he heard them following him, he didn’t care.

 

There was a car outside, idling. Lestrade absently noted that while it wasn’t one of the cars that Mycroft had occasionally sent to pick him up (Though _why_ the man had such a fascination with Sherlock and his business had escaped him for _years_ , until John told him).

 

He glanced in and seeing Ben on the back seat joined him.

 

            “Detective Inspector.” Ben nodded as they drove off.

            “Ben.” Lestrade fastened his seatbelt, “Some answers would be appreciated. Who are you? Not some shop owner, that’s for sure.”

            “The shop is technically mine.” Ben shrugged, “And I pay the taxes on it. It is my name on the deeds. And none would dispute my ownership. But you are right. I am more than a shop keeper. My ID.”

 

An identity wallet, similar to the one Lestrade had for his police ID, was handed over. Lestrade looked at it.

 

            “Codename, Big Ben?” Lestrade read out, “Real name, Classified? Rank, Staff Sergeant.”

            “That’s Parker driving and Gremlin in the passenger seat.” Ben pointed, “Gremlin needs your phone by the way. Can’t have Poppins following you now. That wouldn’t do at all.”

 

That was when Lestrade realized just how vulnerable he’d made himself. He slowly handed over his phone to Ben, who just passed it to Gremlin.

 

            “Gremlin?” He asked after a moment, “From Cybercrimes?”

            “Formerly.” Gremlin nodded as he dismantled the phone, “Nice. You realise you’ve had a bug in this thing for months?”

            “No.” Lestrade breathed in shock.

            “Must be Poppins again.” Gremlin shrugged, “Never mind. I’ve dealt with it. Better not use this phone for a while though. He’s got the GPS rigged too… Tell you what, use the Old Clanker till I can get you a new one.”

            “Old Clanker?” Lestrade frowned.

            “Here.” Gremlin held out the sim-card, “Give him the Old Clanker.”

 

Ben pulled a large and old phone out of a compartment.

 

            “It’s a _brick_.” Lestrade stared.

            “I know,” Gremlin laughed, “But there’s no GPS. And it’s virtually impossible to track.”

            “You’d best call your people.” Ben pointed out, “Tell them that you haven’t been kidnapped.”

            “Haven’t I?” Lestrade asked, as he watched Gremlin chuck his phone out the window.

            “Not at all.” Ben smiled broadly, “We know who sits at Moriarty’s place and moves his chess pieces. We have her in custody. And we know where TC is. We are going to rescue him.”

 

For a moment Lestrade sat in confusion. The idea of rescuing TC when Sherlock had told him TC was the enemy was hard to comprehend.

 

Then a vague, half-forgotten memory rose to the surface.

 

            “You call John TC.” Lestrade breathed, “Sherlock thinks TC is running Moriarty’s organisation. He made a mistake.”

            “Not his first.” Ben shrugged, “And certainly not his last. But yes.”

            “Does he know?” Lestrade asked.

            “O’course, sir.” Parker spoke up for the first time, “TC told ‘im. Sarge, it’s nearly time for the switch.”

            “Carry on, Parker, carry on.” Ben nodded, “Can’t have Poppins figuring us out. Not yet, at least.”

            “Poppins?” Lestrade frowned.

            “The Detective’s brother.” Ben smirked, “Always with an umbrella. And considers himself Practically Perfect.”

            “I can see it.” Lestrade conceded after a moment’s pause, “Who _is_ in charge of Moriarty’s people then?”

            “Irene Adler.” Ben replied seemingly calm, but Lestrade didn’t fail to notice the aborted move to make fists.

            “My records have her in Witness Protection.” Lestrade pointed out.

            “False.” Gremlin called out, “Those files were created to cover up her death at the hands of terrorists in Pakistan.”

            “So she’s dead?” Lestrade was confused.

            “No.” Gremlin snorted, “Her death was faked by the Detective.”

            “Then why the fake file?” Lestrade was losing the plot.

            “Created by Poppins,” Gremlin was chuckling, “To hide her death from the Detective.”

            “Does _anyone_ in that family actually talk to each other?” Lestrade asked rhetorically.

            “Apparently.” Gremlin shrugged, “At least TC says he’s seen it. Me? I can’t believe it.”

            “Detective Inspector,” Ben tapped the man’s knee, “You’d better make your call. Or would you rather text?”

            “I’ll call.” Lestrade quickly used the Old Clanker to call Donovan.

 

            “Where are you?” Donovan demanded.

            “Following a lead.” Lestrade replied quickly, “An informant called. Information on John Watson.”

            “You shouldn’t have gone alone.”

            “They wouldn’t talk to anyone else.” Lestrade countered, “This is the only way. I’ll talk later. This is above your pay-grade.”

            “But not yours?” She snarled back.

            “I think it’s possibly above mine as well. But they don’t seem to care about that. Keep following the leads you get. Hold the fort. I’ll report back in when I get something more concrete. Don’t try to trace me. I get the feeling they’ve done this before.”

 

With that Lestrade hung up.

 

            “Once or twice.” Gremlin laughed.

            “Detective Inspector,” Ben smiled broadly, “We make our own rules. Always have done.”

            “What about Laws?” Lestrade asked.

            “Those are different.” Ben shrugged, “The Law must be obeyed.”

            “Then you will hand over Irene Adler to New Scotland Yard.” Lestrade ordered.

            “I am afraid we cannot accommodate your request at this time.” Ben sighed, “Irene Adler has aided terrorists both in the UK and abroad. She is being interrogated to learn the connections she has. With luck we might be able to crack open several International Terrorist Cells.”

            “We can do that.”

            “No. This is something that is in our jurisdiction. I give you my _word_ that she will not end up at Guantanamo. She will not be harmed… More than she has been already. And when we are finished with her she will be handed over to your custody.”

            “And how long will _that_ take? And what do you mean harmed more than she already has been?”

            “Apparently Sherlock shot her.” Gremlin shrugged, “Didn’t think he had it in him.”

            “He got hold of a _gun_?” Lestrade yelped.

            “We’re a military unit.” Ben pointed out, “It’s not that hard if you’re determined. Or sneaky. Plus we have a _lot_ of non-regulation weapons. Plausible deniability is gold to us.”

            “Ah just hope it wasn’t Gladstone.” Parker shrugged, “TC gets very upset about that.”

            “As for the interrogation,” Ben sighed, “It will take as long as it takes. It’s not illegal detainment. She confessed to a few crimes.”

 

Lestrade had barely noticed when the car stopped in an alleyway, so engrossed he was in the conversation.

 

However the sudden jet of water on the car caused him to jump.

 

            “Be calm.” Ben smiled, “We don’t need anyone to follow us. Once Poppins knows you’ve gone, he’ll want to find out where you are. We can’t have him interfering. Could put TC at risk.”

            “And we don’t want that.” Gremlin nodded.

            “Mi’Ladies and Mi’Lords would be very upset.” Parker agreed.

 

There was a knocking on the window next to Ben. Lestrade peered past him. A man was standing there smiling broadly.

 

The window was rolled down, probably by Ben.

 

            “Maskelyne.” Ben nodded.

            “Ben.” Maskelyne smiled back.

            “How long will you be?” Ben asked.

            “Give us ten minutes, guv.” Another person chimed in.

            “It’s good practice for my people.” Maskelyne laughed, “We haven’t had this sort of practice for months… Oh, and could you sign this for me?”

 

A clipboard, paper and pen were handed over.

 

            “What?” Ben glanced over it, “You want permission for a _Field Trip_?”

            “Well we’re already here.” Maskelyne pointed out, “And I’ve been promising this to them for _ages_. And we’ve basically done our part in all of this.”

            “Be ready to move to our aid if we need it.” Ben scrawled a signature, “And hit the streets as well. Keep eyes on yourselves. We can’t have Poppins interfering. Not now. Not with this.”

            “He’ll find out.” Maskelyne sighed, “If not today. Then tomorrow. We’ll become blips on his radar.”

            “We’ve always been on his radar…” Ben shrugged, “He’s just never bothered to look at us more closely. Let the Brass worry about that. Watch your backs… And enjoy yourselves.”

            “Thanks Ben.” Maskelyne took the clipboard back eagerly, “Give us another five minutes and you can be on your way.”

 

The window rolled back up.

 

            “What are you doing?” Lestrade asked.

            “Your people are going to worry about you.” Ben shrugged, “You turned the phone off. And they can’t remote access it. Next they’ll trace the car. This alley has no CCTV or security cameras. We drove in. And an identical car with identical plates drove out. Next an identical car with different plates will drive out. And finally we will drive out. Now a different colour, make and model.”

            “You can do that?” Lestrade breathed.

            “The Magic Gang are very, _very_ good at what they do.” Ben smirked.

            “Where are they going?” Gremlin queried absently.

            “Home.” Ben replied, “Their home. At least spiritually. Don’t worry about them. The Magic Gang won’t be carrying weapons. They’re not a threat to the Public. They’re good people.”

 

There was another tap on the window.

 

            “You’re good to go.” Maskelyne declared, “Thanks for the permission.”

            “Go. Enjoy yourself.” Ben waved his hand.

 

The group of people pulled off salutes to varying degrees of neatness. Then Parker drove off, leaving the gang behind.

 

            “Now,” Ben smiled broadly, “We go rescue TC.”


	20. Chapter 20

It was the warehouse district where they stopped. Lestrade looked around, he’d seen worse prepared SCO-19 teams… Even if they looked like no two people were wearing the same uniform… Or even if they _had_ a uniform.

 

            “Ah, Ben old boy!” One of the men walked forward, “And this is the esteemed Detective Inspector Lestrade, no doubt. Lieutenant Stone, at your service.”

            “Greg Lestrade at yours.” Lestrade replied automatically, “What’s the status?”

            “We have confirmed that the building is occupied.” Stone walked them over to a van, clearly filled with equipment, “Eleven people. Two on watch. Eight in a small room. One on his own.”

            “That’s TC.” One of the men on the computers looked up, “Heart rate and body size confirm it. Haven’t yet been able to get a proper visual. We’re going to need to send in Siru for a proper look.”

            “I’d prefer to send in the Mouse first.” Ben pointed out, “Don’t want to risk anything.”

            “I concur with Ben.” Stone nodded, “However I would rather take the guards out first. Could the Fellowship please report for duty?”

 

Lestrade watched as nine men appeared out of the crowds. As far as he could tell, not one of them was armed. Though they were all lacking guns at least.

 

            “Gentlemen,” Stone looked at them, “Ten targets. All wanted alive, please. No gun fire. We don’t wish to draw a crowd.”

            “Of course not.” The leader of the group smiled.

 

It was not a very nice smile. And Lestrade suddenly had the thought that Stone had requested the men alive… Stone had requested no gun fire. He had _not_ requested no injuries. He had _not_ requested no harm.

 

Stone for all his exemplary manners and impeccable dress and astoundingly upper-class accent… He was dangerous. And ruthless.

 

            “Any other requests?” The man asked.

            “Don’t let them get near TC’s room.” Stone nodded.

            “Of course.” The man dismissed the comments, “Fellowship, move out.”

            “Don’t they need to discuss a plan?” Lestrade stared at their backs.

            “No.” Ben shook his head, “They know what to do.”

 

And so it seemed they did. Less than ten minutes later, without a single sound being heard outside the building, the ten guards inside were outside. All expertly bound with rope.

 

            “I have some cuffs.” Lestrade offered.

            “Rope allows them to have more fun.” Gremlin countered, “Besides, cuffs can be picked. Flex-cuffs are too pedestrian. And while rope can be worn through or undone. Both require time. And, given the knots that they know, skill. Sign here please, to take official custody of them.”

            “What are they?” Lestrade asked, even as he signed absently.

            “Our Fellowship of the Ring.” Ben smiled, “One of our Rapid Response Teams. Designed to go into places where they really shouldn’t be. To do things they really shouldn’t be doing. And to hold the ground secure until experts can be mobilised. They do a little bit of everything. But what they’re _really_ good at is…”

            “Taking down the enemy before they even know we’re there.” A voice behind Lestrade caused him to jump, “Reid’s found the door to TC’s room. Legolas, at your service.”

            “As in the Elf?” Lestrade stared at him.

            “Yes.” The man sighed, “That’s what _everybody_ says. I was sent for the Mouse.”

            “The Mouse?” Lestrade frowned.

            “Mobile camera for vents.” Gremlin answered as he began to move, “The prototype squeaked like a bloody mouse.”

            “The first _nine_ squeaked like a horde of mice.” Legolas countered, “This is at least tolerable.”

            “We don’t all have Elf-Ears, Legolas.” Ben smothered a smile.

            “It drives _Storm Shadow_ up the wall just as much.” Legolas almost snapped.

            “Elf-Ears.” The rest of the group chorused.

 

Lestrade found himself following in their wake as the group trouped into the building. Gremlin and one of the computer people carrying two cases between them.

 

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            “We’ve confirmed he’s in there.” The Leader of the Fellowship declared, “But by his reckoning he’s sitting on the bomb. We need a view.”

            “We brought the Mouse.” The computer technician declared.

            “How long will it take, Sharkey lad?” Stone asked softly.

            “Give me five?” The technician asked, “And _someone_ find me a vent. No, not _that_ wire, Grem!”

            “It was that wire _last_ time.” Gremlin countered.

            “I’ve upgraded,” Sharkey retorted, “You want the other wire. No, not that one, the other one.”

 

A couple of minutes later and Sharkey was pushing a robot into the ventilation shaft, with help.

 

Then he sat down looking at his computer screen. But didn’t touch a single key on the keyboard.

 

            “Don’t you need to tell it what to do?” Lestrade frowned.

            “That’s old school.” Sharkey replied smugly, “The Mouse knows what to do. I’ve told him where to go. I just have to wait. I put brains in my creatures. The Mouse is the second smartest one I’ve made so far.”

            “The smartest one is called Dog.” Someone teased, “He ain’t too good with names.”

 

Lestrade walked away from the group watching the computer screen towards the door that separated him from a friend he had sorely missed the past three years. Ben moved to one side. Not far enough not to hear, but far enough to give the illusion of privacy.

 

            “John?” Lestrade called out, hoping he could be heard without shouting.

            “Lestrade, they brought you?” John’s voice was far away, but clear.

            “Greg, please.” Lestrade almost begged, “I have missed you.”

            “Missed me?” John’s voice was slightly bitter, “Or missed the one whose shadow I was?”

            “You.” Lestrade was firm, “And don’t call yourself that. I was the one who was blind. Who failed to see the whole of you. Who failed to realize that you were a great man. Greater than any I have ever met before or since.”

            “I’m nothing special, Greg. Never have been. Nothing important ever happens to me.”

            “That’s because you are the Fulcrum,” Ben put in, before Lestrade could think of anything to say, “You _make_ the important happen. You enable things to occur.”

            “Can we open the door?” Lestrade asked.

            “No.” John was firm, “I can see the set-up, there is most definitely a beam crossing the doorway and the door opens inwards.”

            “Are you okay?” Lestrade asked.

            “Wondered when you’d get round to that one.” John snorted, “I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. But I’ve been worse. And kept going then. I’ll be okay.”

            “Hang on in there.” Lestrade instructed, “I have no idea who the hell these guys are, but they seem to know what they’re doing.”

            “Of course they do.” John laughed slightly, “They’re the Tommies. My friends… Greg, I need you to promise something.”

            “What?” Lestrade frowned.

            “If… If this doesn’t go right… If the bomb goes off… Promise me you won’t let Sherlock see my body. Promise me you won’t let him go seeking Revenge. Not in my name. Justice, yes. But not Revenge. Not in my name.”

            “It’s not going to go off!” Ben snapped.

            “I promise.” Lestrade stated calmly.

 

Ben grabbed Lestrade roughly by the arm and dragged him away from the door, before slamming him into a wall.

 

            “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Ben demanded, “He didn’t need to hear that.”

            “Look, you know TC. I’ll give you that.” Lestrade countered, “But I know John. Know him far better than you do. I know how he has _always_ looked out for Sherlock. And is the one _man_ in the whole _World_ , who could _possibly_ turn Sherlock into a decent human being. I know as well as he does that Sherlock probably only has one friend in the whole world… John. I’ve seen what Sherlock is willing to do to protect John… I have no illusions about my fate being particularly influential in his decision. Now, how far do you think Sherlock would go to get revenge? A man with a very small and inaccurate moral compass when it comes to his own actions. If all I can do to reassure John is to promise him. Then I will.

 

            “I have spent the last two and a half, nearly three years, wondering when my phone is going to ring. Wondering when the morgue will call me and tell me that they have John’s corpse. Over that time I have been called out for two murders, three car crashes, one natural, a bar fight and five suicides. That’s not counting the number of times I have been to a hospital for an unconscious John Doe.

 

            “John is my _friend_. As much as you don’t seem to understand that John had friends _after_ he was discharged. I wasn’t able to help him much before. But I _can_ help him now. And if that means making sure a sociopath doesn’t see the only person he truly cares about dead… Then I’ll do it.”

            “Asperger’s.” Ben countered as he released Lestrade.

            “What?” Lestrade blinked.

            “He’s got Asperger’s, not Antisocial Personality Disorder.” Ben corrected, “Okay. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But we’re _not_ losing TC. Not today. Not any other day.”

 

Lestrade moved back to the door.

 

            “I promise, John. Sherlock will not see your dead body. But you’re not going to die. Not today. Not tomorrow.”

            “You got free from Big Ben, huh?” John laughed slightly, “With or without an injury?”

            “I’ll have some interesting bruises tomorrow.” Lestrade shrugged, “But nothing serious. You’ve got a couple of impressive guard dogs around here. Hang overs from the Army?”

            “Military.” John countered, “Who’d they bring in as the Rapid Response Team?”

            “The Fellowship.” Lestrade supplied, “Fast working guys though.”

            “They had a grudge. They were my guards.” John remarked.

            “That might explain it.” Lestrade smiled, “Hang on in there. I’ll go see what’s going on.”

 

Lestrade moved over to the computer screens.

 

            “How’s it going?” He asked.

            “The Mouse has reached the vent,” Gremlin answered, “Cut his way through the vent and moving the camera to find TC.”

            “Got him.” Sharkey smiled, “Doesn’t look too beat up. Can’t see the beams though. Hang on, let’s try a different frequency.”

 

The image on the screen changed almost continually for almost half a minute, before beams crisscrossing the room became visible.

 

            “What’s the frequency for that?” Someone asked.

            “Hold on.” Sharkey held up a hand, “Let me check there’s no other beams on a different frequency. Better safe than sorry and all that rot.”

 

Another minute later and Sharkey was satisfied that there weren’t any beams on another frequency, so he gave up the frequency.

 

            “The old boy was right,” Stone noted, “We cannot use the door and the windows would take too long. Particularly given that we’ll have to get through the wooden boarding. Sirupate, lad, you’re up.”

            “Righto.” A man stepped out of the crowd, “Sharkey, call back your Mouse.”

 

Lestrade took Sirupate in. He was dressed lightly, but warmly. He had a belt with a knife with sheath positioned on the back and a brimmed hat worn at an angle on his head.

 

            “Coming back.” Sharkey declared, “You got the goggles tuned?”

            “Yep.” Sirupate held up a pair of goggles.

            “Shouldn’t you be sending in a bomb expert?” Lestrade asked.

            “I _am_ the bomb expert.” Sirupate grinned.

            “Shouldn’t you be wearing a bomb-suit?” Lestrade stared.

            “Can’t get it through the vent.” Sirupate shrugged, “And I’d never get through the beams with it on. Best if I just do this on the fly.”

            “Mouse out!” Gremlin held up the robot.

            “My turn.” Sirupate moved over to the vent.

 

Legolas locked his fingers together and braced himself to be used as a ladder by the light Sirupate as he climbed into the vent. Leaving his hat behind on Legolas’ head.

 

            “Don’t worry, old lad.” Stone clapped a heavy hand on Lestrade’s shoulder, “Sirupate’s the best in the field. Otherwise he wouldn’t be working for us.”

 

Lestrade’s knees buckled slightly under Stone’s weight. He was surprised at the coldness he felt through his clothes from the hand. A quick glance told him that the hand was metal. A prosthetic. Though how and why the man had such a functional limb, Lestrade was not inclined to inquire.


	21. Chapter 21

Sirupate landed lightly on his feet.

 

            “TC.” Sirupate nodded.

            “Siru.” John smiled tightly, “How much can I move?”

            “I wouldn’t advise moving at all.” Sirupate shook his head, “If they have any sense at all, the bomb has a secondary trigger. And I’m betting on pressure.”

            “What about the lasers?” John asked, “Can you disable them?”

 

Sirupate had taken the outer shell of one of the lasers off, to examine the wiring.

 

            “Not without lots of time. They’ve rigged a secondary trigger here. One of these stops working and the bomb goes off. Looks like I’m doing this at the source.”

            “If there’s a risk that it’s going to go off, you get out of here.” John instructed, “Understand? I’m not having anyone die for me again.”

            “Look, TC,” Sirupate retorted, “You’ve got your professional pride. I’ve got mine. No team-mate of mine is dying from a bomb explosion on my watch.”

            “Siru.” John sighed, “Please.”

            “Just hold on in there.” Sirupate moved slowly round the web of lasers, “I shouldn’t be too long. Tell me about your Detective. I only really heard the rumours.”

            “You’re trying to distract me.” John muttered, as Sirupate started to weave his way through the lasers.

            “Is it working?” Sirupate grinned wildly.

            “No.” John replied softly, “Because I just keep thinking about what he’s been doing… About what he might do if I don’t make it.”

            “Then tell me about anything.” Sirupate suggested, “What do you reckon Radar’s little girls are going to do next? You sorted anything for their birthday?”

            “They’re growing up so fast.” John smiled, “Hard to believe they are those tiny little scraps I delivered.”

 

As John continued to talk about the three little girls, Sirupate reached John’s side. Careful not to break a single beam, he sank down first to his knees, then turning onto his back to get a better look.

 

Unlike many bomb disposal experts, Sirupate was used to working not only without the bulky bomb-suit, but also without the traditional equipment. He far favoured using his kukri and karda.

 

His hands were perfectly steady as he traced the wiring and started work on disarming the bomb.

 

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Lestrade was trying very hard to be patient. But it wasn’t helped by how relaxed the rest of the group were. He wanted to yell at them. To remind them what was at risk should something go wrong.

 

He couldn’t pace, it wasn’t how he coped. He was just leaning against the wall, clenching and unclenching his hands.

 

After about five minutes of watching the poker-playing, origami-folding, computer-programing people, he was about ready to scream.

 

Fortunately that was the point where Ben and Stone took him by the elbows and physically moved him out of the building.

 

            “What are you doing?” Lestrade demanded as he shook them off.

            “You aren’t helping the atmosphere.” Ben stated.

            “Indeed, old chap.” Stone nodded, “The tension is high enough without you losing your temper.”

            “Tension?” Lestrade stared at them, “I saw no tension. I saw people who didn’t seem to care that one of the best men I know is potentially moments away from dying. And his only protection is an ill-equipped bomb-disposal technician!”

            “I will allow you that insult,” Ben’s voice was low and terse, “Because you do not know us. I would sooner trust my children’s lives into Siru’s hands equipped with only his kukri and karda than any other technician with every tool at their disposal.”

            “And while my men may not seem tense to you, Detective Inspector,” Stone took over, “There are many ways to deal with tense atmosphere. We have developed methods which are unlikely to develop into unnecessary shouting or fighting. Methods that do not increase tension. Your presence and anxiety are throwing my men off balance. That is not acceptable.”

            “So you will stay out here until the situation is resolved.” Ben was firm.

            “You can’t do that.” Lestrade protested.

            “We can and we will.” Stone’s voice was like granite, “We know this is not easy for you, Detective Inspector. However TC was ours before he was ever yours. We know what formed the man you know now. Know more about him than you can ever comprehend. We would not risk that for _anything_.”

            “He is our Captain.” A new voice joined in.

 

Lestrade turned to face the speaker, it was another member of the unit, accompanied by Sherlock. Which was much to Lestrade’s relief, at least Sherlock wasn’t running around unaccompanied, which was when he did his most mischief, nor was Lestrade any longer alone among the military.

 

            “Our Guardian in the fight.” The speaker continued, “Our friend. Our Medic. My Captain of the Three Continents Division… My Captain. Alan A-Dale, at your service. Is TC still inside?”

            “The Inspector was disrupting the atmosphere.” Ben shrugged, “Unintentionally, but…”

            “We can’t have that.” Alan nodded, “He’s staying out here too.”

            “I am _not_!” Sherlock protested.

            “Do I have to hogtie you?” Alan got in Sherlock’s face, “You can do no good in there. You’re no help in there. All your brain won’t help TC. You did what we needed you to do. You found him. Everything after that… It’s our plan. He’s _our_ Medic. Our Captain.”

            “Our Doctor.” Ben agreed, “Our TC.”

            “Our Friend,” Stone nodded, “We will not risk him. And your presences could be detrimental.”

            “They could also be beneficial.” Sherlock countered.

            “Extremely doubtful.” Ben retorted, “Considering that TC made the Inspector here, promise not to let you see his body if anything went wrong. I would wager that if there was a single _chance_ that you would be harmed, TC would set the bomb off before you got close enough.”

            “He’s a self-sacrificing, noble idiot that way.” Alan stated.

            “You dare say that about John?” Sherlock and Lestrade snarled almost in unison.

            “Yes.” Alan nodded almost proudly, “Because he is. He’s the guy who could have escaped on his own… But stopped to rescue others. He’s the guy that runs out into the middle of a battlefield to save people, when anyone with any sense would be running away. He’s the guy that is of the few who can claim, rightfully so, not to be scared of dying. He doesn’t _want_ to, but he’s not scared of it. He’s a foolish, stupid, reckless, idiot of a man.”

            “Listing my flaws are you, Alan?”

 

All five men turned to face the building. John was standing in the doorway, leaning on Legolas’ shoulder as he rubbed his leg. Legolas was clearly preventing him from falling over.

 

The other men were right behind them. Only stopping due to the blocked door, but they were all clearly grinning.

 

            “No,” Alan smirked, “Your merits.”

 

John moved out of the entrance, Legolas still helping him, allowing the rest of the Unit to emerge. Lestrade noticed that Siru was juggling two knives and what looked like some bomb parts and a lump of _something_ (probably explosive)… And Lestrade quickly shut down that line of enquiry. He didn’t want to know, he decided. He just didn’t.

 

            “Last I checked ‘idiot’ was not a virtue.” John retorted, “Good to see you, Greg. Life been treating you well?”

            “Nothing to complain about.” Lestrade replied.

 

This was the TC he remembered. From that day. John, but with an edge. A lurking, hidden threat.

 

            “Good grief!” John looked at Lestrade’s hand, “You guys seriously gave him the Old Clanker? You kidnapped a Detective Inspector? What were you thinking? Were you even thinking at _all_?”

            “‘e got into the car of ‘is own free will, sir.” Parker pointed out.

            “And thanks to Poppins that still classifies as kidnapping.” John countered, “Someone get him a proper phone… And how many cars is Poppins currently chasing?”

            “Depends.” Ben shrugged, “Possibly two. He might not have twigged our switch. But Anarchy has the Old Girls’ Network keeping him busy… And the Magic Gang have hit the streets. Probably, by now. They were visiting Their Ancestral Home first.”

            “Oh good,” John nodded, “I know they’ve been trying to do so for a while… I’m _fine_ , Sherlock. My legs are just stiff. No need for another madcap chase. Could she have _found_ a more uncomfortable chair?”

 

Lestrade hadn’t failed to notice Sherlock’s unusual (for him) actions. He had made several aborted movements towards John. It was clear that while the Genius hadn’t believed the Detective Inspector that John had changed, the Genius had learnt the truth. And wasn’t sure how to treat this new John.

 

Lestrade was feeling both slightly vindicated at being right when Sherlock was wrong, and grief that what had seemed an unassailable friendship, at one point, was so fractured.

 

He was also cautious, because he didn’t know how to treat this John either… This TC.

 

            “I rather doubt your comfort was at the forefront of her mind at the time.” Sherlock replied after a long pause.

            “What took you so bloody long?” John sighed, even as he stretched his legs.

            “She did not make contact for a long while.” Sherlock stated, “And there were no solid clues as to your location in the video.”

            “She was careful.” John agreed, “Tell me you have her?”

            “She’s being shipped to the Cousins.” Ben declared, “In a week. I’m to go with. Seems that with our capturing of her pieces she was gathering more and more work from our main foe. I think you can guess who wants a word.”

            “I could almost feel sorry for her.” John muttered, “Storm’s not always nice.”

            “No,” Ben smirked, “He’s not. Not when you’re an enemy. And _particularly_ not when you hurt someone he cares for.”

            “Are you alright, John?” Sherlock managed to ask.

            “I need sleep, a shower, food and drink, non-alcoholic. Preferably not in that order.” John replied, “But I’ve been worse. As Alan knows.”

            “Cura te ipsum.” Alan nodded quickly.

 

John turned and started to walk away from the group.

 

            “John?” Sherlock called out nervously.

            “I said I’m hungry.” John glanced over his shoulder, “Chinese, Sherlock?”

 

Lestrade saw the grin blossom over Sherlock’s face, only moments before he bounded up to his customary place at John’s side.

 

            “I don’t want Chinese.” Sherlock stated, “What about Angelo’s?”

            “He always thinks we’re on a date.” John countered, “But if you want Italian I know a really nice place not too far from here… I think. Alan, Ben, you coming? Stone, you’d best make sure the boys get home safe.”

            “Of course, old chap.” Stone smiled, “And seeing as you have agreed to take a pair of Knights with you, I won’t feel too discomforted about you going off alone.”

            “Thanks.” John retorted, “But I’m a big boy, Stone. I’m verbally signing myself off on Medical Leave for the rest of the day. Doctor’s Orders. Lestrade, you’re going to be left behind. Do keep up.”

 

Lestrade startled by the words, quickly moved to stand on Sherlock’s other side. Ben and Alan were on the other side of John to Sherlock.

 

            “I’ll need you to sign your Medical Leave paperwork later.” Stone reminded, “Enjoy yourself, old boy. I’ll organise the drop off of the minions and the paperwork at the Yard as well.”

            “We’ll have to pick up Mrs Hudson,” John stated, “Else we’ll never hear the end of it.”

            “John,” Sherlock spoke softly, “Are you coming back to Baker Street?”

            “I don’t know.” John shrugged, “And I’m not going to think about it. Not now. That’s for tomorrow. Today, I’m going out for a good meal with my good friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done!


End file.
